JROWNE 


A 


SCARS  AND  STRIPES 

PORTER  EMERSON  BROWNE 


I 


P-.K 


'AND  THERE  YOU  HAVE  THE  POOR  OLD  MAN  SHAKING 
HIS  FIST  ONE  MINUTE  AND  HIS  FINGER  THE  NEXT! 


SCARS    AND 
STRIPES 


BY 

PORTER  EMERSON  BROWNE 


FRONTISPIECE  BY 
PETER  NEWELL 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  IQI7, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  IQl6,  BY  THE  MCCLURE  PUBLICATIONS,  INCORPORATED 
PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


i 

g> 


TO 

THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

ONE        SCARS  AND  STRIPES 13 

Two        THE  NEUTRAL 57 

THREE    "FOR  GOD  AND  KING!" 85 

FOUR      "SOMEWHERE  IN  " 99 

FIVE       MARY  AND  MARIE 123 

Six          "UNCLE  SHAM" 145 

SEVEN  "WE'LL  DALLY  'ROUND  THE  FLAG,  BOYS  !"  171 


CHAPTER  ONE 
SCARS  AND  STRIPES 


SCARS  AND  STRIPES 

CHAPTER  ONE 

SCARS  AND  STRIPES 

WELL,"  I  said,  "it  looks  as  though  the  old  man 
is  beginning  to  wake  up  at  last." 
"Uncle  Sam?"  queried  my  friend. 
I  nodded.     "Don't  you  think  so?"  I  asked. 
He  considered,  thoughtfully. 
"Perhaps,"  he  answered.     "If  he  isn't,  at  least 
he's  beginning  to  toss  in  his  sleep  and  pick  at  the 


covers." 


He  paused. 

"But  what  I'm  waiting1  for,"  he  went  on,  "is  to 
get  a  peep  at  his  face  when  finally  he  sits  up  in  bed 
and  props  his  eyes  open  and  gets  a  good  look  at 
things.  He'll  certainly  wish  that  he  hadn't  waked 
up — or  that  he'd  never  gone  to  sleep  in  the  first 
place.  The  trusted  employes  that  he  left  in  charge 
of  things  when  he  undertook  his  present  Rip  Van 
Winkle  have  certainly  messed  things  up  about  as 
perfectly  as  they  could  have  done  had  they  had 

13 


14    .          ;       SCARS    AND   STRIPES 

their  hearts  and  souls,  instead  of  their  hands  and 
feet,  in  the  work." 

My  friend  shook  his  head. 

"I've  sat  for  hours/'  he  observed,  "trying  to  think 
of  something  they  could  have  done  worse.  But  so 
far,  I've  got  to  compliment  them  at  least  upon  the 
multiplicity  of  their  mistakes ;  for,  while  I  can  find 
scores  of  errors  that  they  needn't  have  made,  I  can't 
find  a  single  one  that  they've  overlooked.  When  it 
comes  to  doing  the  wrong  thing  at  the  right  time, 
their  batting  average  is  a  thousand.  And  the  par 
ticularly  beautiful  and  nai've  part  of  it  is  the  way 
they  stand  around  and  pat  themselves  on  the  back 
about  it! 

"  'America's  spirit  is  reawakened,'  they  say.  'Our 
honour  and  integrity  cannot  be  tampered  with.'  And 
this  when  for  two  hell-born,  bleeding  years  our 
honour  and  integrity  have  been  at  will  burned  and 
bombed  and  blown  up,  torn  and  trampled  and  tor 
tured  !  .  .  .  But  at  that  you  must  admit  that  a  na 
tional  honour  that  can  stand  such  treatment  as  ours 
has  borne  and  still  be  on  its  feet,  is,  in  the  crude 
vernacular  of  the  proletariat,  some  honour.  So  we 
can  console  ourselves  with  the  thought  that,  if  noth 
ing  else,  our  national  honour  at  least  holds  all  record 
for  endurance.  It's  bullet-proof,  and  blood-proof, 
and  insult-proof.  It  recks  but  little  of  women  and 


SCARS  AND   STRIPES  15 

babies  ruthlessly  slain.  Its  flag  dishonoured,  its 
rights  relinquished,  its  citizens  crying  with  dying 
lips  for  succour  that  does  not  come,  our  national 
honour  still  goes  teetering  along,  as  supinely  helpless 
as  a  baby  hippopotamus,  the  while  trying  to  conceal 
its  dead  and  dying  by  belching  forth  oratorical  gas- 
clouds  anent  the  'higher  rights  of  humanity'  and  'the 
world  once  more  thrilled  to  hear  the  new  world 
asserting  the  standards  of  justice  and  liberty/ 

"Germany  must  be  worried  sick — to  say  nothing 
of  Mexico.  The  first  thing  they  know,  the  New 
World  will  slam  a  dictionary  at  'em,  or  something. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  isn't  it  ever  going  to  pene 
trate  into  the  dank  and  word-tangled  jungles  of 
phraseology  in  which  these  men  think  they  do  their 
thinking  that  it  is  one  thing  to  assert  and  another  to 
act?  You  can  assert  until  you're  black  in  the  face 
and  all  covered  with  lather;  but  that  doesn't  affect 
the  assertee  except  to  excite  his  wonder,  amusement 
and  pity. 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  old  lad  now?' 
queries  Germany,  watching  Uncle  Sam  all  worked 
up  and  breaking  out  into  an  oratorical  rash. 

"  'Oh,'  says  Austria,  'he's  only  asserting  his 
rights  again.' 

'"He'll  bust  a  blood-vessel,  the  first  thing  he 
knows/  says  Germany,  'getting  all  het  up  like  that.' 


16  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

"'We  should  worry/  says  Austria.  'It's  his 
blood-vessel,  ain't  it?  Come  on.  Let's  go  down 
to  the  bulletin-board  and  see  what  the  score  at  Ver 
dun  is.' 

"And  off  they  go,  leaving  Uncle  Sam  asserting 
his  rights  to  the  circumambient  ether,  while  Mexico, 
hiding  behind  a  cactus,  stimulates  him  to  further 
assertion  by  occasionally  chunking  him  with  a  rock. 

"Elihu  Root  said  it.  You  can't  shake  your  fist 
at  a  man  and  then  shake  your  finger.  You  can 
shake  your  finger,  if  you  want  to;  but  before  you 
start  in  shaking  your  fist,  you'd  better  be  sure  there's 
a  brick  in  it.  Also  you'd  better  be  ready  morally, 
physically,  and  financially  to  fight,  and  fight  to  the 
limit.  The  man  who  shakes  his  fist  and  isn't  pre 
pared  to  back  it  up  with  a  fight,  is  a  fool.  He  gains 
nothing;  and  he  loses  everything.  For  the  minute 
he  doesn't  back  it  up,  his  adversary  knows  right  off 
that  he's  only  a  bluff;  and  then  is  gone  even  the 
respect  that  his  adversary  thought  was  due  him. 

"If  you  want  proof  of  this,  you  needn't  go  any 
further  than  Mexico.  Why  are  we  in  all  that  mess 
down  there? — a  mess  that  it  will  take  at  least  ten, 
and  maybe  even  twenty  or  thirty,  years ;  and  a  hun 
dred  thousand,  or  even  more,  men  to  clean  up.  Why 
has  all  that  come  to  plague  us  now?  Because  we 
tried  to  put  over  a  cheap  bluff.  Because  we  shook 


SCARS   AND   STRIPES  17 

our  fist  when  we  weren't  ready,  and  didn't  intend 
to  fight.  That's  why. 

"And  because  we've  been  caught,  because  our 
bluff  has  been  called,  because  the  Mexicans  found 
out  that  we  didn't  mean  what  we  said,  and  that  back 
of  all  our  resounding  phrases  lay  nothing  but  wind; 
because  experience  had  taught  them  that,  once  con 
fronted,  we  would  stop  shaking  our  fist  and  start  in 
shaking  our  finger  again,  the  Mexicans  have  lost 
all  respect  for  us — yes,  even  all  fear  of  us — and 
we've  got  to  start  in  with  them  all  over  from  the 
beginning. 

"To-day,  in  Mexico,  the  words  gringo  (meaning 
American)  and  coward  are  synonymous.  Go  to 
Mexico  to-day,  if  you  will.  But  don't  admit  that 
you  are  an  American.  Say  that  you  are  English, 
German,  French,  Italian,  even  a  Chinaman  or  a  Mor 
mon.  But  don't  admit  that  you  are  an  American. 
If  you  do,  in  all  sections  will  you  be  insulted;  in 
some  will  you  be  killed.  And  why  not?  Haven't 
Americans  time  and  again  been  murdered  without 
reprisal  ?  Haven't  American  soldiers  been  sent  into 
Mexico  only  to  be  driven  out  again?  Hasn't  the 
American  government  repeatedly  shaken  its  fist  at 
them  only,  on  the  first  show  of  resistance,  to  shake 
its  finger?  Hasn't  the  American  government  re 
peatedly  answered  the  cries  for  help  of  its  dying  citi- 


18  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

zens  by  advising  them  to  get  out  of  the  country 
if  they  could,  and  if  not,  to  do  the  next  best  thing? 
What  wonder,  then,  that  American  men  and  women 
are  not  safe  in  Mexico  ?  What  wonder  that  Mexico 
neither  fears  nor  respects  us,  but  only  despises  and 
mocks  us  ? 

"And  it  is  a  fact,  impossible,  incomprehensible 
even  as  it  may  seem,  that  the  Mexicans  think  the 
United  States  is  afraid  of  them!  Yet,  when  you 
come  to  analyse,  it  is  neither  impossible  nor  incom 
prehensible.  Virtually  all  the  population  of  Mexico 
is  illiterate,  vastly  ignorant  and  very  vain.  The 
belief  of  the  Mexicans  in  their  own  prowess,  and  in 
the  cowardice  of  Americans,  has  been  carefully  fos 
tered  by  their  own  leaders,  and  even  more  sedulously 
cultivated  by  the  government  of  the  United  States. 
It  is  an  opinion  founded  upon  fact,  and  supported  by 
a  proof  but  too  ample.  Hence  why  should  they  not 
believe  it? 

"It  all  comes  within  the  policy  of  our  government 
of  borrowing  big  troubles  to  pay  off  little  ones. 

"During  all  the  chaos  in  Mexico  that  followed  the 
withdrawal  of  Diaz,  and  the  succession  of  Madero, 
we  kept  out;  that  is,  officially  we  did.  Unofficially 
— but  that's  too  long  a  story  to  tell  here. 

"Then  came  Huerta,  personally  and  politically 
unappealing  perhaps,  to  our  government,  but  at  the 


SCARS   AND   STRIPES  19 

same  time  the  one  man  who  had  it  in  his  power  to 
rule  Mexico  as  Mexico  must  be  ruled  if  ruled  she 
must  be  by  Mexicans.  For,  be  it  known,  the  Mex 
icans  are  not  too  proud  to  fight.  They  are  a  hardy 
lot  and,  when  it  comes  to  pacificism,  they  are  sadly 
practical.  They  believe  in  Peace  at  Any  Price,  and 
stand  always  ready  to  pay  the  price.  The  only 
thing  they  insist  on  is  that  the  other  lad  shall  furnish 
the  peace ;  and  to  see  that  he  be  not  derelict  therein, 
they  are  perfectly  willing,  and  even  a  bit  pleased,  to 
convert  him  into  a  facsimile  of  a  colander,  or  a  pin 
cushion,  or  similar  article  of  household  use.  Which 
accounts  for  the  vividness  and  uncertainty  of  life 
in  that  country. 

"However,  as  I  say,  Huerta,  not  coming  up  to  our 
more  cultivated  northern  standards,  him  we  refused 
to  recognise.  The  further  fact  that,  when  it  came 
to  diplomacy,  he  made  our  most  cultivated  lights 
look  like  a  lot  of  children  playing  'I  Spy!'  around  a 
flat  rock,  did  not  increase  our  cordiality.  Hence  we 
used  our  moral  influence,  the  hollowness  of  which 
had  not  then  been  exposed,  to  have  him  bounced. 

"Once  we  had  him  and  his  family  rounded  up 
and  corral  counted  on  Long  Island,  with  the  over 
flow  picketed  in  New  York,  we  looked  around  to  see 
whom  we  could  recognise  the  easiest.  It  seemed  to 
be  Villa.  So  we  gave  him  a  lot  of  guns  and  cart- 


20  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

ridges  and  boosts  in  the  newspapers,  and  support, 
both  moral  and  immoral,  and  turned  him  loose. 

"Villa  starts  forth,  full  of  optimism  and  marital 
happiness.  But  he  doesn't  get  far  when,  to  our 
pained  amazement,  an  old  party  wearing  spectacles 
comes  out  from  where  he's  been  hiding  behind  his 
whiskers  and  bushwhacks  our  more  or  less  White 
Hope  and,  as  they  say,  bushwhacks  him  good. 

"As  Villa  lies  there,  feeling  of  his  bumps,  while 
his  devoted  wives  administer  First  Aid  to  the  All 
Bunged  Up,  we  turn  to  the  old  party  in  surprise. 

"  'Hello !'  we  say.    ' Where'd  you  come  from  ?' 

"'Me?'  says  the  old  party.  'Why,  I  be'n  here 
right  along/ 

"  'But  who  are  you,  anyhow  ?'  we  inquire. 

"  'Carranza's  my  name/  says  the  old  party. 
'Though  mother  always  calls  me  Venustiano  for 
short/ 

"  Oh/  we  say.  'But  what  are  you  doing  around 
here  anyway?5 

"  'I'm  president/  he  says. 

"  'You  are !'  we  cry,  in  amazement. 

"  'I  sure  are/  he  says.  'Didn't  you  see  me  just 
elect  myself?' 

"  'But  Villa  is  our  recognised  candidate,'  we  in 
sist.  'What  qualifications  have  you  got  for  so  great 
and  august  a  job?' 


SCARS   AND   STRIPES  21 

"  'Well/  says  Carranza,  complacently  removing  a 
Gila  monster  and  a  couple  of  stinging  lizards  from 
his  facial  sage  brush,  'I  just  licked  Villa.  What 
more  do  you  want  ?' 

"It  seems  sufficient.  Also  again  it  seems  the 
easiest  way  out  of  it.  Accordingly  we  recognise 
Carranza;  and,  with  a  sigh  of  relief  at  having  so 
thoroughly  and  so  conscientiously  performed  our 
duties  to  mankind  and  the  higher  laws  of  humanity, 
we  go  back  home  to  look  over  the  political  situation 
in  Pennsylvania,  leaving  our  erstwhile  presidential 
choice,  Villa,  hiding  in  a  prairie  dog  hole,  as  full  of 
venom  as  a  rattlesnake.  He  isn't  used  to  being  recog 
nised  and  then  unrecognised  in  such  a  hurry,  and  it 
leaves  him  as  peevish  as  a  badger.  And  so  he  scut 
tles  off  into  the  scenery,  taking  for  his  motto,  'Shoot 
Americans  First/ 

"And  he  does.  The  very  first  crack  out  of  the  box, 
he  stops  a  train.  Allowing  all  the  other  passengers 
to  go  free,  he  takes  therefrom  seventeen  American 
mining  men  that  were  going  back  to  their  work  un 
der  the  protection  of  the  Carranza  government  (and, 
remember,  that  is  the  government  we^had  then  rec 
ognised,  and  behind  which  we  then  stood)  and,  giv 
ing  them  a  running  start,  he  shoots  them  in  the  back. 

"Unarmed  they  were.  They  offered  no  resist 
ance.  Deliberately,  cold-bloodedly,  they  were  mur- 


22  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

dered.  And  then,  their  blood-hunger  but  half  glut 
ted,  did  Villa  and  his  men  shoot  bullet  after  bullet 
into  their  dead  bodies ;  and  even  then  still  insatiate, 
did  they  jab  the  mangled  corpses  with  bayonet  and 
with  knife!  .  .  .  Truly,  the  government  of  the 
United  States  did  well  when  it  gave  its  recognition 
to  so  noble  a  humanitarian  as  Francisco  Villa! 
Huerta,  whom  on  moral  grounds  we  could  not  rec 
ognise,  may  have  been,  and  probably  was,  all  that 
has  been  said.  But  at  that  he  makes  some  of  the 
Mexican  presidents  we  have  recognised  look  like 
new-hatched  angels  with  two  harps  and  four  sets 
of  pinions. 

"And  then  what  happens  t  Do  we  take  imme 
diate  and  drastic  action  to  punish  the  murderers? 
to  gain  atonement  for  past  crimes  and  protection 
against  future?  You  bet  we  do! 

"Glancing  up  from  the  presidential  situation  in 
the  Middle  West,  we  ask  Carranza  what  he  means 
by  it. 

"  'How  dare  you  permit  Villa  to  murder  Ameri 
can  citizens?'  we  demand.  'Don't  you  know  that 
the  nobler  duties  of  mankind  and  the  higher  laws  of 
humanity,  and  that  American  lives  shall  be  held 
inviolable  and  inviolate  wherever  the  hand  of  men 
has  ever  trod?'  we  demand. 

"  'Sure,  7  know  it,'  says  Carranza.    'I  know  it ; 


SCARS   AND   STRIPES  23 

and  you  know  it;  but  I'm  afraid  it's  a  fact  that 
Villa's  overlooked.  He's  an  ignorant  cuss  that 
don't  scarcely  know  nothing.  Why,  would  you 
believe  it,  that  feller  can  hardly  write  his  own 
name.  He  never  even  went  to  night  school!' 

"  'Never  mind  about  that,'  we  say.  'We  demand 
the  punishment  of  the  offenders/ 

"  'Don't  you  worry/  says  Carranza.  'I'll  appre 
hend  them  malefactors  or  know  the  reason  why. 
You  just  give  me  a  week,  or  a  couple  of  years,  or 
something,  and  I'll  catch  every  last  son-of-a-gun 
of  'em — if  they  don't  die  of  old  age.  And  when 
I  do  catch  'em,  I'll  fill  'em  so  full  of  holes  they 
won't  be  worth  skinning.  You  just  leave  it  to  me. 
And  pray  God  no  harm  comes  to  'em  in  the  mean 
time/ 

"At  which,  again  being  thoroughly  satisfied  that 
we  have  done  our  duty  to  humanity  and  the  higher 
laws  of  mankind,  we  go  back  to  the  political  situa 
tion  in  Michigan.  And  there's  a  state  for  you! 
Though  since  they've  put  up  Henry  Ford  for  pres 
ident,  it  could  scarcely  be  called  a  state.  It's  more 
like  a  condition. 

"Carranza,  meanwhile,  realising  that  he's  got  to 
throw  a  bluff  at  making  good,  calls  in  his  military 
leaders.  He  knows,  and  they  know,  that  they've 
got  about  as  much  chance  of  catching  Villa  as  you 


24  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

have  of  taking  dinner  with  Christopher  Columbus. 

"However,  they  rustle  out  into  the  hinterland ;  and 
in  a  few  days  they  come  back  with  a  couple  of 
fresh-laid  corpses. 

"These  they  tie  on  stretchers  and  prop  up  against 
the  place  where  the  curb-stone  ought  to  be  in  the 
heart  of  the  city  of  Juarez. 

"Inasmuch  as  they  are  two  of  the  most  complete 
and  thorough  corpses  that  have  been  seen  in  some 
time,  they  at  once  become  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes. 
Women  stop  to  gaze  upon  them  happily  on  their 
way  home  from  market.  Men  with  whom  corpses 
are  a  hobby  stop  to  accord  them  a  dignified  and 
envious  glance.  Corpse  parties  of  children  fore 
gather  there  of  sunny  afternoons,  little  Pancho  and 
Panchita  calling  shrilly  to  less  fortunate  adolescents 
whose  irksome  tasks  of  grinding  flour  and  keeping 
the  flies  off  father  while  he  takes  his  daily  siesta 
have  combined  to  constrain  them  to  the  less  allur 
ing  atmosphere  of  their  homes;  the  while  the  au 
thorities,  trying  not  to  show  the  glow  of  gratifica 
tion  that  subtly  fills  their  inner  beings,  stroll  non 
chalantly  about  pretending  a  modesty  that  they 
cannot  really  feel.  For  as  an  exhibition,  it's  quite 
the  most  successful  affair  that's  been  pulled  off  in 
Juarez  since  the  Occupation. 

"In  the  meanwhile,  Carranza  sends  us  a  letter. 


SCARS   AND   STRIPES  25 

"  'Department  of  the  Exterior, 
'Washington,  D.  C, 

'U.  S.  A. 
"'GENTS: 

"  'In  re  your  recent  request  to  capture  and  exe 
cute  and  otherwise  punish  the  recent  perpetrators  of 
the  murder  of  American  citizens,  taken  from  train 
number  36  and  killed  by  the  bandit,  Francisco  Villa, 
who  I  don't  like  any  better  than  you  do,  will  say 
that  I  have  captured  two  of  his  generals  which  I 
have  had  entirely  shot.  If  you  don't  believe  it,  you 
can  find  their  bodies  lying  in  the  plaza  at  Juarez. 
You  can  find  'em  any  time.  The  weather  is  good, 
so  we  don't  bother  to  take  'em  inside.  And  besides, 
corpses  lasts  better  outdoors  anyway.  One  is  Pablo 
Gomez.  That's  the  skinny  one.  The  other  is  some 
body  else. 

"  'Hoping  that  you  are  the  same,  I  remain, 

"  'Y'rs  truly, 

"  'V.  CARRANZA, 

"  Trimo  Jefe. 

"  'P.  S. — If  this  ain't  satisfactory,  let  me  know 
and  I'll  shoot  a  few  more.  What's  a  few  corpses 
more  or  less  between  friends?' 

"And  is  it  satisfactory?  Why  not?  We  got 
what  we  asked  for,  didn't  we?  We  demanded  the 
punishment  and  execution  of  the  offenders.  Well, 
there  they  are.  Two  dead  bodies,  lying  in  the  pub 
lic  square;  lying  there  while  the  populace  stands 
around  admiring  them;  while  photographers  take 


26  SCARS   AND    STRIPES 

pictures,  full  face,  profile,  what  not;  while  little 
children  play  around.  .  .  . 

"And  this  within  a  mile  of  American  soil!  This 
in  the  name  of  humanity  and  the  higher  laws  of 
mankind ! 

"And  does  it  end  there?  Hardly.  Again  we  are 
but  borrowing  big  troubles  to  pay  little  ones.  Villa 
is  still  free.  Villa  is  still  sore.  Villa  still  has  men, 
and  guns,  and  munitions;  munitions  that  we  gave 
him! 

"And  with  these  men,  and  guns,  and  the  muni 
tions  that  we  gave  him,  he  crosses  the  border  one 
night  and  slaughters  the  men  and  women  of  Colum 
bus,  New  Mexico;  American  men,  American 
women,  and  on  American  soil!  Yes,  he  kills  on 
American  soil  American  men  and  American  wom 
en;  and  he  kills  them  with  American  guns  and 
American  powder  and  American  bullets  given  him 
by  the  American  government!  If  you  can  find  a 
cuter  little  idea  than  this  anywhere  in  history,  I'd 
like  to  hear  it. 

"And  what  do  we  do  then?  Again  do  we  take 
immediate  and  drastic  action  ?  Of  a  surety.  Don't 
you  know  us  by  this  time? 

"We  write  Carranza  a  nice  chatty  note.  We  tell 
him  that  we  are  afraid  he  isn't  able  to  cope  with  the 


SCARS   AND   STRIPES  27 

situation  and  ask  his  consent  to  send  troops  into 
Mexico. 

"It  takes  him  a  week  or  so  to  find  out,  or  not  find 
out,  that  he  will,  or  won't,  or  something.  Mean 
while,  of  course,  we  wait.  You  see,  far  be  it  from 
us  to  offend  anybody ! 

"But  coincidentally  popular  anger  is  rising. 
Hence,  with  a  fine  show  of  indignation,  we  an 
nounce  to  the  waiting  newspaper  correspondents 
that  we  have  decided  to  follow  our  usual  firm  and 
drastic  course  in  upholding  the  nobler  laws  of  man 
kind  and  the  higher  duties  of  humanity  and  demand 
Villa's  body,  dead  or  alive;  or,  if  they  can't  find 
the  body,  the  head  will  do. 

"Which,  when  it  comes  to  humanity,  is  also 
rather  a  unique  idea,  don't  you  think?  Although 
at  that,  it's  by  way  of  being  what  is  technically 
known  as  old  stuff.  Old  man  Herodius's  daughter, 
What's-Her-Name,  pulled  it  with  a  lad  named  John 
the  Baptist. 

"Then,  still  in  a  fine  frenzy  of  righteous  indigna 
tion,  we  call  in  the  Secretary  of  War  and  ask  him 
where  the  army  is.  He  says  he  doesn't  know  ex 
actly;  but  the  last  time  he  saw  it,  it  was  sitting 
in  the  parade  ground  at  Fort  Ethan  Allen  smoking 
a  pipe.  But  he  says  he'll  write  it  a  letter,  and  if 


28  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

it  gets  it  all  right,  it  will  probably  show  up  in  a 
week  or  ten  days. 

"Thanking  the  efficient  secretary,  we  leave  orders 
to  have  the  field  wireless  dusted  off,  and  to  see 
that  the  eight  flyless  aeroplanes  are  in  their  accus 
tomed  state  of  creeping  paralysis.  Then  we  look 
up  in  the  geography  and  find  out  where  Mexico  is. 
Then  we  get  out  a  time-table  and  find  that  the  7 120 
train  leaves  at  7 :2O.  Then  we  buy  some  automobile 
trucks  from  Detroit,  and  take  the  hospital  mules 
from  a  fort  in  California,  and  tell  Carranza  that  we 
are  going  into  Mexico  anyway.  Just  like  that! 

"Carranza  says  is  that  so? 
1  'That  is,  if  you  don't  mind/  we  say,  smiling 
engagingly.  For,  it  occurs  to  us  that  Carranza, 
being  a  rude  soul,  may  not  appreciate  a  fine  frenzy, 
being  more  accustomed  himself  to  the  rough,  com 
mon-or-garden  frenzy,  such  as  is  commonly  found 
in,  and  indigenous  to,  his  native  habitat.  'You 
don't  mind,  do  you?'  we  ask. 

"  'No,'  he  says.     'I  mean  yes/ 

"Then  you  don't!'  we  cry,  hopefully. 

"  'Yes,'  he  says.    'I  mean  no/ 

'  'Quite  so,  quite  so/  we  return,  gently,  remem 
bering  that  a  soft  answer  turneth  away  wrath,  and 
at  the  same  time  wishing  that  Carranza  didn't  look 


SCARS   AND    STRIPES  29 

quite  so  much  like  a  Rocky  Mountain  goat  hiding  in 
a  cosy  corner.  We  think  a  minute. 

"  'But,  you  see,  old  man,'  we  say  (thus  diplo 
matically  spreading  on  the  apple  butter),  'we've  got 
to  go.  The  people  are  demanding  the  punishment 
of  Villa;  and  if  we  don't  at  least  show  a  little 
speed,  they're  going  to  snow  us  under  so  deep  in 
November  that  compared  to  us  a  submarine  will 
look  like  an  aeroplane;  I  don't  mean  one  of  ours/ 
you  hasten  to  correct;  'I  mean  a  regular  one  that 
will  fly. 

"  'It's  going  to  be  terrible,'  you  insist.  'We'll 
be  buried  so  far  down  they'll  have  to  deliver  our 
mail  with  an  oyster  rake.  We  won't  be  able  to 
write  notes  or  anything.  You've  simply  got  to  let 
us  go  in.  That's  all.' 

"  'Well,'  says  Carranza,  while  we  listen  with 
eager  hands  clasped  as  the  syllables  sift  through  his 
whiskers,  'you  can  go  into  Mexico  on  four  condi 
tions/ 

"  'Yes  ?'  we  cry,  breathlessly. 

"  'The  first,'  says  Carranza,  'is  that  you  don't  ride 
on  any  of  my  railroads.' 

"  'Oh,  we'll  walk,'  we  assure  him.  'We  just  love 
to  walk!  We've  got  new  shoes,  and  everything!' 

"  The  second,'  says  Carranza,  'is  that  you  don't 
go  anywhere  where  anything  is  liable  to  happen/ 


30  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

"'Certainly  not!'  we  expostulate. 

"  'The  third/  says  Carranza,  'is  that  you  behave 
yourself  nice  and  don't  act  rough.  My  countrymen 
don't  like  you  in  the  first  place.  They  think  you're 
a  poor  piece  of  cheese ;  and  I've  got  trouble  enough 
fooling  'em  about  myself  without  having  to  bunco 
'em  about  you,  as  well.  .  .  .  Well  ?'  he  says. 
'  'We  agree  to  that,  of  course,'  we  assure  him. 

"  'You  don't  mean  you  accept  those  conditions  ?' 
says  Carranza. 

"  'Why,  of  course  we  do,'  we  answer,  gratefully. 
'Thank  you.  Thank  you  so  much.' 

"Carranza  looks  at  us,  helplessly. 

"'And  the  fourth  condition?'  we  ask. 

"Carranza  shakes  his  head. 

"  'If  you  accept  the  other  three,'  he  says,  'the 
fourth  don't  matter.  I've  forgot  it.  And  anyway, 
them  three's  the  worst  I  could  think  of  all  by 
myself.' 

"He  looks  at  us  and  waggles  his  whiskers,  weakly. 

'  'One  thing,'  he  says,  eyeing  us,  thoughtfully, 
Til  bet  eleven  million  pesos,  which  is  seven  dollars 
in  regular  money,  that  his  nurse  sure  dropped  him 
on  his  head  when  he  was  a  baby.'  And,  still  wag 
gling  his  whiskers,  he  goes  off  to  his  presidential 
bomb-proof  to  offer  up  his  usual  evening  prayer 


SCARS   AND   STRIPES  31 

that  the  next  time  Obregon  crosses  a  river  on  horse 
back,  there'll  be  a  quicksand  in  the  bottom. 

"And  thus  we  send  our  troops  into  Mexico; 
send  them  on  foot,  on  horseback,  transporting  their 
supplies  by  wagon  and  automobile;  send  them  into 
a  waste  of  barren,  blazing  sand,  hot  during  the 
day  as  a  furnace  bed,  cold  at  night  as  a  murderer's 
heart;  send  them  in,  as  fine  a  body  of  men  as  ever 
put  shoe  on  foot,  or  threw  saddle  on  horse,  to 
suffer  of  thirst  and  hunger,  and  the  blindness  of 
the  desert  glare ;  send  them  in  with  aeroplanes  that 
will  not  fly,  and  wireless  that  will  not  work,  with 
lines  of  communication  that  are  a  farce,  and  against 
conditions  that  are  a  tragedy ;  send  them  in,  twelve 
thousand  men,  to  catch  one!  And  that  one  in  a 
friendly  country,  a  country  that  he  knows  as  well 
as  the  palms  of  his  hands,  a  country  where  horse 
and  man  and  food  are  found  ever  at  his  will.  .  .  . 

"It  would  be  tragic  if  it  weren't  so  funny.  As 
well  send  a  steam  roller  into  the  Dismal  Swamp 
to  catch  a  typhoid-fever  microbe! 

"These  men  at  Washington !  What  can  they  say 
in  their  own  defence,  these  men  at  Washington  that 
sent  our  troops  into  Mexico  to  a  foredoomed  fiasco  ? 
What  excuse  have  they  to  offer,  these  men  who 
planned  and  forced  to  execution  probably  the  most 
asinine  and  inept  military  movement  ever  conceived 


32  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

outside  of  a  nursery  jingle?  Condemned,  and  abso 
lutely,  they  stand  between  two  alternatives.  For 
either  they  did  not  know  the  kind  of  country  and 
conditions  with  which  the  troops  would  be  forced 
to  contend;  in  which  case  are  they  condemned  of 
their  ignorance;  or  they  sent  them  in  for  the  purely 
political  purpose  of  satisfying  public  sentiment; 
in  which  case  are  they  condemned  of  their  ambition. 
Could  either  be  more  ineluctably  damning?  For 
men  of  so  vast  an  ignorance  are  unfit  for  high  posi 
tion.  Even  as  men  of  an  ambition  so  overweening 
as  to  sacrifice  for  its  political  gratification  the  lives 
of  their  fellows,  are  unfit  to  be  known  as  men.  .  .  . 
"And  then  what?  Doomed  to  certain  failure,  as 
of  course  was  the  expedition  from  the  first,  our 
troops,  inadequate  in  number,  helpless  in  communi 
cation,  could  but  penetrate  so  far  into  a  country 
that  we  ourselves  have  taught  to  hate,  and  despise 
and  belittle  us.  And  so,  failing  ignominiously  in 
our  avowed  purpose,  to  the  accompaniment  of  a 
lot  of  windy  explanations  that  mean  nothing,  do 
we  start  taking  our  troops  out  again!  Talk  about 
military  strategy!  Compared  to  us,  that  well- 
known  king  of  France  who  marched  his  twenty 
thousand  men  up  a  hill  and  then  marched  them 
down  again  was  a  nascent  Napoleon. 


SCARS   AND   STRIPES  33 

"And  why  do  we  start  taking  our  troops  out 
again  ? 

"Because  Carranza  says  that  we  must! 

"And  who  is  Carranza? 

"A  vain  and  purblind  old  gentleman  that  we  our 
selves  helped  put  in  power  and  to  whom  we  have 
furnished  arms  and  ammunition  that  again  have 
been  used  to  kill  its  with!  A  pompous  and  bom 
bastic  old  party  with  whom  we  fuss  and  fiddle  and 
write  letters  and  make  protocols  even  while  the 
sand  foundations  of  his  political  fortunes  slip  and 
slide  beneath  his  feet ;  just  as  we  fussed  and  fiddled 
and  wrote  letters  with  Villa ;  just  as  we  fussed  and 
fiddled  and  wrote  letters  with  Huerta;  just  as,  ap 
parently,  it  is  our  intention  to  fuss  and  fiddle  and 
write  letters  with  Obregon  when  Carranza  is  gone, 
and  with  Cabrera  when  Obregon  is  gone,  and  with 
Somebody  Else  when  Cabrera  is  gone,  and  with 
Some  One  Else  when  Somebody  Else  is  gone,  and 
so  on,  ad  infinitum  and  ad  nauseam. 

"For  Mexico  is  but  a  bleeding  and  prostrate 
wreck  of  a  nation,  around  and  over  which  ride 
murderer  and  marauder  and  bandit.  She  cannot 
help  herself;  too  near  to  death  she  is.  Ravished 
and  ravaged  she  lies,  at  the  absolute  mercy  of  her 
matricides,  the  matricides  that  we  have  stood  aloof 
to  watch  pursue  their  bloody  work  unchecked. 


34  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

"To  recognise  one  of  her  sons  against  the  other 
is  but  to  court  that  one's  downfall;  for  the  rest 
will  fall  upon  him  and  trample  him  beneath  their 
feet.  The  might  of  blood  in  Mexico  carries  its 
own  punishment. 

"So  it  is  that  to  write  letters  to  a  president  of 
Mexico  is  like  writing  letters  on  the  water  with  a 
rod  of  glass. 

"But  letter-writing,  while  sufficiently  absurd,  yet 
in  a  way  is  harmless.  What  hurts  is  the  sending  in 
of  a  handful  of  our  soldiers  to  face  the  thousands 
of  blood-hungry,  life-despising  descendants  of 
Aztec  Indians  and  Spanish  buccaneers;  sending 
them  in  against  certain  failure,  only  to  take  them 
out  against  a  failure  more  certain  still.  The  Mexi 
cans  all  along  have  known  us  to  be  cowards.  Now 
they  know  us  to  be  fools  as  well. 

"And  so  confident  are  they  now  in  this  oft- 
proven  belief  that  this  time  they  don't  even  wait  for 
us  to  get  our  soldiers  out  before  they  make  another 
raid  across  the  border  and  use  their  American  arms 
and  American  ammunition  to  kill  more  Americans 
on  American  soil! 

"And  why  should  they  not  ?  Haven't  Americans 
been  raided  and  murdered  along  the  border  for  the 
past  three  years  or  more,  to  the  military  glory  and 
financial  aggrandisement  of  the  raider  and  mur- 


SCARS   AND   STRIPES  35 

derer?  Haven't  American  soldiers  been  fired  on 
with  impunity;  because,  forsooth,  they  were  under 
orders  from  Washington  not  to  return  the  fire? 
What  wonder,  then,  that  they  consider  an  Ameri 
can  citizen  successful  prey;  and  an  American  sol 
dier  but  a  moving  target  ? 

"No  wonder  the  game  laws  are  off !  No  wonder 
it's  an  open  season  for  Americans  along  the  Mexi 
can  border!  Haven't  they  shot  them  sitting,  or  on 
the  wing?  Haven't  they  shot  them  in  the  breeding 
season,  and  even  on  the  nest?  And  all  with  little 
said  and  less  done! 

"We  provide  game  wardens  for  our  deer,  our 
duck  and  our  partridge.  For  our  citizens  we  pro 
vide  nothing. 

"And  the  laws  are  going  to  stay  off;  the  open 
season  will  remain  open;  more  Americans  will  be 
killed,  American  men,  American  women,  American 
children,  and  on  American  soil ;  and  no  twelve  thou 
sand  men  are  going  to  stop  it,  no  matter  how 
brave;  nor  are  they  going  to  stop  it  in  twelve 
months,  no  matter  how  efficient ;  and  no  amount  of 
purblind  palaver  with  provisional  presidents  is 
going  to  put  an  end  to  it,  for  a  Mexican  president 
is  as  evanescent  as  inspiration,  and  as  transitory  as 
style.  Nor  is  the  matter  to  be  corrected  by  any 
amount  of  nice,  typewritten  notes,  no  matter  how 


36  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

full  of  resounding  phraseology  anent  the  nobler 
duties  of  mankind  and  the  higher  laws  of  humanity. 
The  one  conception  of  humanity  of  the  average 
Mexican  is  that  it's  something  to  be  raped,  robbed 
and  ravished.  The  only  thing  they  understand  is 
physical  force,  and  plenty  of  it.  And,  until  we  pre 
pare  ourselves  both  physically  and  mentally  to  ad 
minister  that  force,  we  can  make  up  our  minds, 
and  make  'em  up  now,  that  just  so  long  will  Ameri 
can  men,  American  women  and  American  children 
be  slaughtered,  and  on  American  soil.  Pray  God 
it  won't  be  done  any  longer  with  American  guns 
and  American  ammunition.  That  much,  at  least, 
we  can  prevent. 

"So  much  for  Mexico.    For  Germany  what? 

"THEY  have  answered  our  latest  note;  number 
67,706  or  whatever  it  is.  They  have  taken  their 
own  good  time  to  answer  it;  and  they  have  an 
swered  it  in  the  tone  and  spirit  that  best  suited 
them.  But  the  note  is  meant  only  in  the  slightest 
degree  for  us;  for  the  Germans  feel  toward  us  a 
good  deal  as  the  Mexicans  do.  To  the  Germans 
we  are  something  to  which  to  write  notes  for  the 
rest  of  the  world  to  read ;  and  when  Germany  feels 
that  it  is  not  to  her  interest  to  bother  with  us  any 
further,  then  she'll  ignore  us,  as  we  deserve.  Just 


SCARS   AND   STRIPES  37 

at  present  Germany  feels  like  using  us  for  a  sound 
ing-board  to  talk  peace  under,  and  as  a  means  of 
embarrassing  England.  If,  later,  she  decides  to  use 
us  for  something  else,  she'll  use  us;  if  not,  she 
won't.  If,  later,  she  finds  out  it's  to  her  advantage 
to  refrain  from  the  further  murder  of  American 
citizens,  she'll  refrain;  if  not,  she'll  continue.  But 
whatever  she  does,  or  does  not,  do,  we  can  be 
sure,  and  very  sure,  of  one  thing:  that  the  course 
she  will  pursue  will  be  taken  only  because  it  is  to 
her  interest  to  take  it,  and  not  from  any  respect  or 
consideration  of  us. 

"For  under  our  present  leaders  and  in  our  now 
state  of  helplessness,  Germany  does  not  fear  us  any 
more  than  she  respects  us;  nor  does  she  respect  us 
any  more  than  she  fears  us.  And  why  should  she  ? 
Haven't  we  been  a  playground  for  her  propaganda 
ever  since  the  war  began?  Don't  her  spies  and 
secret  agents  know  more  about  our  country  than 
do  we  ourselves?  We  have  answered  her  insults 
with  notes;  we  have  met  her  abuses  with  more 
notes;  and  we  have  greeted  the  murder  of  our 
citizens  with  wind  backed  up  by  nothing  but  more 
wind.  Why  should  she  respect  us?  Why  should 
she  consider  us?  As  well  respect  a  typewriter  and 
consider  a  fountain-pen! 

"And  of  one  other  thing  can  we  be  sure :  That 


38  SCARS   AND    STRIPES 

when  this  war  is  over,  and  the  nations  of  Europe 
all  get  together  to  rearrange  international  affairs, 
we'll  enter  into  things  about  as  vividly  as  a  one- 
legged  man  at  a  dance.  While  they  are  sitting 
around  dividing  up  all  the  plums  of  shipping  and 
trade  and  finance,  we'll  be  pestering  around  on  the 
outside  trying  to  plead  past  acquaintance  as  an 
excuse  to  get  in  to  the  festivities. 

"  'Who's  the  old  guy  with  the  chin  piece  that's 
trying  to  horn  in?'  says  England. 

"  'You  mean  the  stringy  old  lad  with  the  striped 
pants  and  the  plug  hat?'  says  Russia.  'Seems  to 
me  I've  seen  him  somewhere.' 

"'Oh,'  says  Italy,  'that's  only  old  Uncle  Sam. 
Don't  pay  no  attention  to  him.' 

"  'Used  to  be  quite  a  lad,  didn't  he  ?'  says  Russia. 

"  'Yes,'  says  France,  'but  he  don't  amount  to  any 
thing  now/ 

"'No?'  says  little  Sylvester  J.  Serbia,  shoving 
Bulgaria  into  his  pants  pocket.  'I  thought  he  was 
quite  some  pumpkins.' 

"  'He  was  once,'  says  France.  'I  helped  him  out 
one  time  when  he  was  a  young  feller.  I  thought 
then  he'd  turn  out  to  be  a  regular  man.' 

"'Didn't  he?'  says  little  Albert  Belgium,  inter 
estedly. 


SCARS   AND   STRIPES  39 

"The  other  nations  all  look  at  each  other  and 
have  a  good  laugh. 

"  'Why/  says  one,  'that  poor  old  lady  ain't  got 
as  much  manhood  as  a  setting  hen.  He  stayed 
home  and  hid  under  a  feather-bed  while  the  trouble 
was  going  on.  Now  it's  over,  he  wants  to  be  in.' 

"  'He's  making  so  much  noise  I  can  hardly  think/ 
says  another.  'Set  the  dog  on  him !' 

"  'I  would/  says  a  third,  'only  I  don't  want  to 
insult  the  dog.  I'll  set  a  mouse  instead/ 

"So  they  chase  the  poor  old  man  off  home,  and 
he  swims  across  the  ocean,  having  a  terrible  battle 
with  a  jellyfish  on  the  way  over,  and  then  he  buys 
himself  five  hundred  sheets  of  writing-paper, .  and 
a  box  of  carbons,  and  a  new  typewriter  ribbon, 
and  sits  down  to  play  the  only  kind  of  a  game  he 
knows  how;  and  thereafter,  when  it  comes  to  a 
conference  on  international  affairs,  they  don't  even 
ask  him  what  he  thinks  he  thinks  about  it.  And  at 
state  dinners,  where  in  other  days  he  used  to  be 
right  up  among  the  face-cards,  he  now  finds  himself 
sitting  just  to  the  left  of  China,  between  Patagonia 
and  Iceland. 

"And  that's  what  these  men  at  Washington  have 
done  to  your  Uncle  Sam,  to  my  Uncle  Sam,  to  the 
Uncle  Sam  of  a  hundred  million  more  of  us ;  to  the 
Uncle  Sam  that  through  all  these  years  of  blood 


40  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

and  iron,  of  peace  and  happiness,  of  toil  and  moil 
and  joy  and  sorrow  we've  worked  for,  and  strug 
gled  for,  and  loved  and  honoured  and  respected; 
to  the  Uncle  Sam  of  our  fathers  and  our  fathers' 
fathers  before  them;  to  the  Uncle  Sam  with  the 
face  and  heart  of  a  Lincoln,  the  mind  and  strength 
of  a  Jefferson,  the  soul  and  faith  of  a  Washington! 
So  low  as  this  they've  dragged  him.  .  .  .  Poor, 
poor  Uncle  Sam! 

"And  for  all  their  misrepresentation,  for  all  their 
emasculation,  for  the  white  robes  of  cowardice  in 
which  they  have  wound  him,  for  all  the  meaning 
less,  bombastic  phraseology  they  have  placed  be 
tween  his  fine,  firm  lips,  do  these  men  at  Washing 
ton  have  but  one  excuse  to  offer :  that  they  keep  us 
out  of  war! 

"Certainly  we  keep  out  of  war.  So  does  a  steer 
in  a  slaughter-house. 

"There  are  lots  of  things  that  keep  out  of  war, 
keep  out  consistently,  persistently,  congenitally. 
Woolly  lambs  keep  out  of  war.  So  do  angle 
worms.  So  do  jellyfish.  So  do  sunflowers,  and 
Stilton  cheeses  and  hard-boiled  eggs.  To  boast  that 
you  have  kept  out  of  war  is  like  boasting  that  you 
have  never  had  scarlet  fever.  It  means  either  that 
you  have  never  been  exposed  to  its  influence,  or 
that,  exposed,  you  were  sufficiently  strong  to  throw 


SCARS   AND   STRIPES  41 

it  off.  But  for  a  man  to  stand  around  and  boast 
that  he's  never  had  scarlet  fever  when  his  wife  and 
children  are  dying  with  it,  that  is  certainly  a  whole 
lot  too  many  for  me! 

"It's  on  a  par  with  the  conversation  of  these 
people  who  talk  against  preparedness. 

"Preparedness,  and  I  mean  military  and  naval 
preparedness,  has  always  been  as  much  a  part  of 
the  lives  of  Americans  as  the  air  they  breathed,  or 
the  food  they  ate. 

"When  the  Colonists  landed  in  Virginia,  they 
carried  gun  and  powder,  bullet  and  sword.  When 
the  Pilgrims  landed  on  Plymouth  Rock,  they  were 
armed;  yet  they  too  were  godly  men,  and  good. 
The  fact  that  they  carried  arms  did  not  make  them 
kill  Indians.  It  was  the  fact  that  they  carried  guns 
that  prevented  the  Indians  from  killing  them. 

"Preparedness,  to  our  ancestors,  was  the  very 
germ  of  life.  Without  it  they  would  never  have 
lived  long  enough  to  give  birth  to  descendants  who 
in  turn  gave  birth  to  us. 

"At  Concord  and  Lexington  it  was  the  same, 
and  throughout  the  war  that  wrung  us  full-born 
from  the  womb  of  England  to  become  a  people 
great  and  free  to  enjoy  the  liberty  that  is  now  ours 
to  use,  and  to  abuse.  .  .  . 

"And  in  the  Civil  War.    Suppose,  when  this  coun- 


42  SCARS   AND    STRIPES 

try  had  that  to  face,  that  the  people  of  the  North, 
instead  of  preparing  (belatedly,  to  be  sure,  as  they 
did,  and  suffering  from  that  belatedness  as  they 
needs  must),  had  sat  back  fatly  and  complacently 
and  written  notes  about  it?  Why,  had  the  North 
acted  as  these  pacificists  want  us  to  act  now,  all  that 
the  South  would  have  had  to  do  would  have  been 
to  put  an  advertisement  in  the  New  York  papers 
warning  all  Northerners  that  the  South  was  in  a 
state  of  war,  and  that  if  they  didn't  want  to  get 
killed,  they'd  better  stay  at  home.  That  would  have 
settled  the  whole  thing  right  there.  Of  course  the 
country  would  have  been  busted  wide  open  in  the 
middle.  But  what's  a  little  thing  like  that  to  a 
pacifist? 

"Why,  preparedness  has  been  the  one  thing  that 
conceived  this  country,  that  carried  it,  and  that  gave 
it  birth.  To  preparedness  we  owe  everything  we 
have  and  everything  we  are.  To  the  armed  protec 
tion  that  our  ancestors  gave  us  to  do  we  owe  the 
peace  that  has  given  us  the  opportunity  to  grow  and 
expand  and  develop.  To  it  we  owe  our  freedom 
of  speech  and  religion.  To  it  we  owe  our  national 
wealth  and  prosperity.  All  that  we  have  come  to 
\  be,  all  that  we  have  come  to  own,  we  owe  to  mili- 
y\  tary  preparedness  and  naval;  to  the  fact  that  we 
were  too  strong  physically  to  be  attacked  with  im- 


SCARS   AND   STRIPES  43 

punity.  Preparedness  and  this  country's  history 
have  always  been  as  inseparable  as  a  man  and  his 
heart's  blood.  And  yet  at  this  time,  when  more 
than  ever  in  our  country's  history  is  it  needed,  there 
are  people  who  talk  about  cutting  it  off  as  though 
it  were  a  vermiform  appendix  or  a  couple  of  ade 
noids. 

"I  tell  you,  it's  got  me  going.  It's  unbelievable. 
It's  so  unbelievable  as  to  be  incomprehensible! 

"It's  like  knowing  a  lot  of  folks  well  all  your 
life,  finding  them  reasonable  and  sane  on  every 
topic,  and  then  suddenly  having  them  start  a  loud 
and  noisy  argument  with  you  on  the  contention  that 
the  human  race  is  better  off  without  food. 

"To  be  sure,  they've  always  eaten  food.  Their 
ancestors  ate  it  before  them.  There's  always  been 
food  for  them  ever  since  they  were  born.  Food 
has  been  as  much  a  part  of  their  lives  as  air,  or 
water.  Nevertheless,  all  of  a  sudden,  they  begin 
this  outcry  against  it. 

"You're  sitting  down  to  a  modest  meal  of  scram 
bled  eggs  and  lima  beans,  topped  off  with  a  hunk 
of  huckleberry  pie,  when  in  hop  your  friends. 

"On  seeing  you  thus  draped  against  the  festive 
board,  they  stand  aghast. 

"  'What !'  they  cry,  in  accents  horrified.  'You 
aren't  eating!' 


44»  SCARS  AND   STRIFES 

'  'A  modicum/  you  reply.  'Won't  you  sit  down 
and ' 

"But  they  all  have  thrown  up  their  hands  in 
helpless  anguish. 

"'What's  the  matter?'  you  ask. 

"For  a  minute,  they  can't  speak. 

''  'Don't  you  know/  they  gasp  at  length,  'that 
eating  is  the  Most  Terrible  Thing  in  the  World?' 

"  'Is  it  ?'  you  ask,  dropping  your  fork.  'In  what 
way?' 

"  'In  the  first  place/  they  answer,  'it  costs  money.' 

"  'Well/  you  answer  brightly,  'I  can  afford  it. 
And  since  it  makes  for  the  protection  of  my  health 
and  strength,  as  well  as  putting  me  in  shape  to 
perform  my  arduous  duties  in  the  potato  patch ' 

"  'But  look  at  them  people  across  the  pond/  they 
interrupt,  excitedly,  'that  Hohenzollern  family!' 

"'What  about  'em?'  you  ask. 

"  'Why,  haven't  you  heard?'  they  cry.  'They've 
got  gout  and  indigestion  and  cirrhosis  of  the  liver 
and  everything,  and  they're  having  the  rottenest 
time?  And  it's  all  from  over-eating!' 

"  'That  isn't  the  fault  of  the  food/  you  argue. 
'It's  the  fault  of  the  individual.  You  can't  blame 
the  food  for  making  them  sick  any  more  than  when 
a  man  cuts  himself  with  a  razor  you  can  blame  the 


razor.' 


SCARS   AND   STRIPES  45 

"But  will  they  listen  to  you?  Hardly!  They 
leave  you  flat  as  being  too  hopelessly  feeble-minded 
to  argue  with,  and  go  out  on  the  street,  telling  how 
Food  is  a  Terrible  Thing  because  it  costs  money, 
and  the  fact  that  youVe  got  a  barrel  of  molasses  in 
the  house  makes  you  try  to  gulp  it  all  up  at  once 
instead  of  saving  it  up  to  put  on  flapjacks,  and  how 
poor  Mr.  So-and-So  like  to  eat  himself  to  death  the 
other  night  because  his  son  brought  home  eight  cab 
bages  and  a  wagon  load  of  pumpkins,  and  about  old 
Mrs.  What's-Her-Name  that  foundered  herself  be 
cause  it  rained  and  filled  up  the  cistern  and  she 
hadn't  the  moral  courage  to  resist  seeing  that  much 
water  around  without  trying  to  drink  it  all. 

"The  question  of  preparedness  has  always 
seemed  so  clear  and  simple  to  me  that  I  can't  under 
stand  everybody  not  seeing  it.  What  is  life  any 
way  but  preparedness?  What  is  preparedness  but 
life?  Why,  without  preparedness,  you  and  I  and 
everybody  else  would  be  dead  in  a  week. 

"Look  at  your  own  daily  life.  What  do  you  do 
the  first  thing  when  you  get  up  in  the  morning? 
You  put  on  your  clothes.  And  if  that  isn't  pre 
paredness,  what  is  it? 

"And  suppose  you  should  decide  on  being  un 
prepared  and  go  out  without  them?  You'd  catch 
pneumonia,  get  arrested  and  die  in  a  police  station ; 


46  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

though  if  you  didn't  believe  in  preparedness,  there 
wouldn't  be  any  police  station ;  for  what  is  a  police 
station  but  preparedness?  So  you'd  die  in  the 
street.  .  .  .  No.  Wrong  again.  There  wouldn't 
be  any  street;  for  streets  are  preparedness,  too; 
preparedness  to  make  travel  easy;  so  you'd  die  in 
a  field  somewhere.  No,  there  wouldn't  be  any 
fields;  for  fields  are  preparedness  against  raising 

crops;  and  so Wait  a  minute.  If  you  didn't 

believe  in  preparedness,  you  wouldn't  have  had  any 
clothes  in  the  first  place;  neither  would  your  an 
cestors  ;  and  you  wouldn't  have  had  any  schools,  for 
schools  are  preparedness  against  ignorance;  nor 
churches,  for  churches  are  preparedness  for  moral 
and  religious  betterment ;  so  you  wouldn't  have  had 
any  religion  or  morals.  So  you  see,  if  you  really 
begin  to  chase  the  idea  of  unpreparedness  back  to 
its  origin,  you'd  be  covered  with  hair,  and  living  in 
a  cave  and  eating  raw  meat  and  mangel  wurzels. 

"And  if,  even  in  those  days,  you  were  still  con 
sistent  and  refused  firmly  and  irreligiously  to  equip 
yourself  with  a  stone  hatchet,  or  a  club  with  knobs 
on  the  end,  along  would  come  a  dinosaur,  or  an 
ichthyosaurus,  or  similar  faunal  monstrosity,  and 
you  wouldn't  have  been  at  all  in  the  first  place. 
And  there  you  are! 

"But  admitting,  which  I  don't,  that  you  reached 


SCARS   AND   STRIPES  47 

your  present  state  in  spite  of  preparedness,  what 
then? 

"We'll  suppose  that,  on  arising,  it's  your  custom 
to  take  a  bath.  Why?  Preparedness.  Prepared 
ness  against  disease.  You  dress.  Preparedness 
against  taking  cold,  or  outraging  the  sensibilities  of 
the  community.  You  eat  breakfast.  Preparedness 
against  hunger  and  for  efficiency.  Then  you  ask 
your  wife  for  a  nickel.  Preparedness  against  hav 
ing  to  walk  down  town.  Then  you  go  to  work. 
Preparedness  against  earning  money  to  pay  your 
bills  and  buy  yourself  the  food  and  clothes  that 
prepare  your  body  against  privation.  Then  you 
eat  lunch.  Preparedness  against  more  hunger. 
Then  you  work  some  more.  Preparedness  against 
losing  your  job.  Then  you  eat  dinner.  Prepared 
ness  so  that  you  can  enjoy  your  evening's  rest  or 
pleasure.  Then  you  go  to  the  theatre,  or  play  cards, 
or  dance.  Preparedness  against  all  work  and  no 
play  making  Jack  a  dull  boy.  Then  you  go  home 
and  go  to  bed.  Preparedness  so  that  you'll  be 
strong  enough  to  go  to  work  the  next  day,  or  fish 
ing  if  it  happens  to  be  Sunday.  You  exercise  to 
prepare  your  body  for  its  duties.  You  rest  for  the 
same  reason.  You  read  and  go  to  school  for  the 
purpose  of  preparing  your  brain  to  cope  with  other 
brains. 


48  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

"You  have  a  house  to  prepare  against  exposure. 
You  buy  an  umbrella  to  prepare  against  rain.  You 
pay  taxes  to  pay  for  the  police  force,  which  is  pre 
paredness  against  crime,  and  the  fire  department, 
which  is  preparedness  against  fire.  And  you  have 
doctors  who  are  preparedness  against  death,  and 
undertakers  who  are  preparedness  for  it. 

"And  then  the  main  argument  of  the  pacifists  is 
that  having  arms  makes  you  want  to  fight ! 

"Does  having  clothes  make  you  never  want  to 
undress?  Does  having  a  bath-tub  make  you  never 
want  to  get  out  of  it?  Does  having  a  job  make 
you  want  to  work  all  the  time?  Does  having  an 
umbrella  make  you  pray  for  rain? 

"You  might  as  well  say  that  having  doctors 
makes  you  want  to  be  sick,  and  having  undertakers 
makes  you  want  to  die ! 

"And  it  is  primarily  in  this  question  of  prepared 
ness  that  we  are  so  wrong,  so  horribly,  so  pitifully, 
so  dangerously  wrong. 

"We  are  unprepared.  And  how  unprepared, 
God  only  knows.  For  not  only  are  we  unprepared 
in  an  army  and  a  navy;  we  are  unprepared  as  well 
physically,  mentally,  morally.  That  is  why  we  have 
shirked  and  dodged  and  sidestepped  our  responsi 
bilities.  That  is  why  we  have  shifted  and  turned 
and  twisted  every  new  obligation  that  has  come  to 

V 


SCARS   AND   STRIPES  49 

meet  us.  That  is  why  we  have  borrowed  big  troubles 
to  pay  little  ones.  Anything  to  avoid  doing  our 
duty!  Anything  to  avoid  fulfilling  our  obligations  I 
Anything,  no  matter  how  shameful,  to  avoid  facing 
our  responsibilities! 

"We,  with  all  our  talk  of  the  higher  rights  of 
humanity,  and  the  nobler  duties  of  mankind !  Who 
in  heaven's  name  are  we?  Let  God  look  after  the 
higher  rights  of  humanity.  Let  God  take  care  of 
the  nobler  duties  of  mankind.  If  we  can  only  help 
Him  by  helping  ourselves,  we'll  be  doing  a  whole 
lot  more  in  the  future  than  we  have  in  the  past. 
For  the  sum  total  of  all  that  we  have  accomplished 
under  our  present  leaders  (God  save  the  mark!) 
in  two  long  years  is  to  borrow  big  troubles  to  pay 
off  little  ones!  Not  one  solitary  thing  have  we 
settled.  Not  one  issue  that  does  not  remain  to  be 
faced,  and  not  one  of  these  issues  that  has  not 
grown  an  hundredfold  in  menace,  in  danger  and 
in  potential  ruin.  For  the  little  fire  becomes  a  holo 
caust.  The  lion  cub  becomes  full  grown.  Murder, 
unchecked,  becomes  massacre.  And  the  cancer  of 
the  body  politic,  no  less  than  of  the  body  physical, 
if  let  alone  will  rot  the  vitals  that  carry  it.  ... 

"  'But  what  course  is  open  to  them/  you  ask, 
'these  men  at  Washington?  What  should  they  do?' 

"What  should  any  man  do  whose  employer  fails 


50  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

to  give  him  the  tools  with  which  to  work?  He 
should  go  to  his  employer  and  ask  him  for  those 
tools.  He  should  say,  'I  have  a  task  to  do,  but  I 
have  nothing  with  which  to  do  it.  Give  me  tools, 
and  I  will  work;  else  will  it  be  your  fault  if  the 
task  remains  undone ;  for  botch  it  I  will  not/ 

"And  then,  if  the  work  be  not  done,  it  is  clear 
who  is  to  blame. 

"But  these  men  at  Washington,  is  that  what  they 
do?  Not  exactly.  Instead,  they  fill  the  air  with 
vain  and  futile  words!  They  rush  in  with  a  nut- 
pick  when  they  need  a  crow-bar,  and  then  come  out 
to  get  a  nail-file!  They  hop  in  here,  only  to  hop 
out  there!  They  belch  forth  words  one  minute 
only  to  eat  them  the  next !  They  talk  about  protect 
ing  humanity  when  they  can't  protect  even  the 
smallest  of  their  own  villages;  and  they  talk  about 
the  nobler  duties  of  mankind  when  they  haven't 
performed  even  the  smallest  and  meanest  of  their 
own.  And  the  heavens  ring  with  their  resounding 
rhetoric  when  you  could  write  a  complete  list  of 
their  achievements  on  a  gnat's  eyelid. 

"What  should  these  men  at  Washington  do? 
They  should  put  up,  or  shut  up.  Inelegant  it  may 
be;  but  it  is  the  truth. 

"And  meanwhile,  fat,  flamboyant  and  futile  we 
sit  here  while  our  dead  call  to  us  from  unmarked 


SCARS   AND    STRIPES  51 

graves;  while  suffering  and  torture  and  horrors 
unnameable  lie  upon  every  side.  With  Mexico  we 
have  intruded  and  then  evaded  until  she  lies  a  bleed 
ing  pulp.  With  Germany  we  have  quibbled  and 
squabbled  while  our  men,  our  women  and  our  little 
babies  have  been  flung  into  the  blood-red  maw  of 
her  god  of  war.  From  right,  from  wrong,  from 
truth,  from  falsehood,  from  justice,  from  injustice, 
from  humanity,  from  inhumanity,  have  we  stood 
alike  aloof.  And,  after  two  long  years,  still  have 
we  no  means  of  any  kind  to  fight  for  the  one,  or 
against  the  other;  still  have  we  no  means  to  pro 
tect  our  women  from  rape  or  our  children  from 
murder.  Still  have  these  men  at  Washington  left 
us  so  supine,  so  abject,  so  pitiful,  that  a  Mexican 
bandit  can  come  on  American  soil,  murder  Ameri 
can  men,  American  women,  American  children  and, 
going  Scot-free,  turn  to  laugh  at  us  in  our  pitiable 
helplessness. 

"Is  there  any  answer  to  that,  save  one?  Truly 
I  cannot  see  it.  The  people  of  Columbus  were  law- 
abiding,  and  had  set  a  high  moral  example.  It 
did  not  prevent  them  from  being  killed.  Also  some 
of  them  were  armed.  But  it  had  not  made  them 
aggressive.  But  they  were  inadequately  armed. 
Hence  were  they  dragged  from  their  beds  and  slain, 
murdered  in  cold  blood,  while  a  nation  of  one  hun- 


52  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

dred  million  people  stood  powerless  to  save  them; 
as  it  now  stands  powerless  to  prevent  others  like 
them  from  being  murdered  even  as  were  these. 
Even  as  that  nation  has  stood  helpless  to  see  Ger 
many  murder  its  citizens  at  sea,  and  still  stands 
helpless  against  other  murders  that  yet  may  well  be. 

"You're  an  American.  I'm  an  American.  And 
there  are  a  hundred  million  more  of  us,  as  proud 
and  glad  to  be  Americans  as  you  and  I ;  loving  the 
word  as  much;  as  proud  of  our  country  and  as 
jealous  of  her  honour  and  good  name;  willing  to 
fight  for  her,  and  die  for  her,  to  protect  and  guard 
the  freedom  and  liberty  for  which  our  fathers 
fought  and  died;  glorying  in  her  patience  and  her 
power,  her  gentleness  and  her  dignity,  her  kindness 
and  her  strength. 

"How  long,  then,  can  we  endure  to  be  so  help 
less?  How  long  can  we  endure  to  be  so  abject? 
How  long  can  we  endure  to  be  so  supine? 

"God  knows  we  do  not  want  war.  War  is  some 
thing  to  be  dreaded  as  disease  is  dreaded,  to  be 
feared  as  wild  beasts  are  feared.  All  we  want  is 
to  be  strong,  and  to  be  brave;  strong  enough  to 
help  the  weak  that  need  us,  brave  enough  to  defy 
the  tyrannical  that  would  outrage  us.  That  is  what 
we  want,  and  all.  Just  that,  and  no  more. 

"This  country  that  is  ours  was  left  us  by  our 


SCARS   AND    STRIPES  53 

fathers,  watered  of  their  blood,  freshened  of  their 
hearts,  flowered  of  their  souls.  They  left  this  trust 
for  men  to  use,  not  for  cowards  to  abuse.  And  if 
we  are  deserving  of  the  name  American;  if  we 
stand  for  what  they  stood;  if  we  love  what  they 
loved,  honour  what  they  honoured  and  are  true  to 
what  they  were  true;  if  life,  liberty  and  the  pursuit 
of  happiness  mean  but  half  as  much  to  us  as  they 
did  to  them,  then  is  it  now  for  us  to  bow  our  heads 
to  God  and  ask  His  help  to  be  the  men  they  would 
wish  us  to  be.  He  knows  it  is  in  us  to  do  if  we 
but  will!" 


CHAPTER  TWO 
THE  NEUTRAL 


CHAPTER  TWO 

THE   NEUTRAL 

IT  was  at  the  club.    Gray  was  talking ;  Drake  and 
I  listening. 

"I,"  said  Gray,  "am  neutral." 

I  said  nothing.    What  was  the  use? 

"Here  we  are,"  said  Gray,  "the  richest  country 
in  the  world;  contented;  prosperous;  and  at  peace. 
And  if  it  so  happens  that,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
world,  are  a  lot  of  crazy  people  shooting  one  an 
other,  and  blowing  one  another  up,  what  business  is 
it  of  ours?  Why  should  we  take  sides?" 

Drake  took  up  the  futile  challenge. 

"There's  always  a  right  and  wrong  to  every  side 
— to  every  cause,"  he  asserted.  "And  a  man  who 
won't  fight  for  the  right  and  fight  against  the 
wrong,  isn't  a  man;  he's  a  fish,  and  a  mighty  poor 
fish  at  that." 

"Bah!"  said  Gray. 

"Do  you  bah  Belgium?"  queried  Drake.  "That 
crime  of  barbarism  against  civilisation,  that  slaugh 
ter  of  right  by  might,  that  ravaging  of  humanity 
by  bestiality — yes,  and  worse!  for  beasts  only  kill. 
It  takes  human  beings  to  torture." 

57 


58  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

"War  is  war/'  returned  Gray.  "I  suppose  the 
aggressors  were  doing  only  what  they  thought  was 
for  their  best  advantage." 

"Doubtless,"  returned  Drake.  "I  imagine  Cap 
tain  Kidd  had  much  the  same  excuse." 

He  turned  directly  to  Gray. 

"How  about  the  Lusitania"  he  asked,  "and  all 
the  other  submarine  massacres  ?  And  the  Zeppelins  ? 
The  murder  from  the  air  of  sleeping  women  and 
children!  What  extenuation  have  you  for  those? 
Any,  except  the  one  you've  already  advanced?" 

Gray  crossed  his  legs. 

"You  talk  like  a  magazine  article,"  he  said,  im 
patiently.  "All  we  know  is  that  there  are  a  lot  of 
nations  fighting  their  heads  off,  and  it's  up  to  us  to 
keep  out  of  it,  and  stay  out." 

"Is  that  all  we  know?"  asked  Drake. 

"Well,  isn't  it?"  demanded  Gray. 

Drake  shook  his  head. 

"Not  quite,"  he  said.  "We  know  that  there 
are  in  Europe  a  lot  of  nations  that,  in  modern 
times  and  under  modern  conditions,  were  doing  the 
best  they  could  in  the  best  way  they  could.  We 
know  that  among  these  nations  was  another  that 
coupled  with  a  national  efficiency  higher  than  any 
the  world  has  ever  seen,  an  Idea  that  was  older 
than  murder.  And  that  nation,  combining  as  no 


THE   NEUTRAL  59 

nation  ever  has  or  probably  ever  will  again,  the 
brain  of  an  Edison  with  the  soul  of  an  Atilla,  has 
gone  forth  into  other  lands  to  ravage  and  to  ravish 
and  to  rape,  with  its  magnificent  equipment  of  the 
twentieth  century — and  its  brutal  ruthlessness  of 
the  tenth.  What  is  it  up  to  the  rest  of  the  world 
to  do?" 

"Go  to  bed  and  wait  for  it  to  get  over,"  returned 
Gray.  He  rose,  impatiently.  "For  heaven's  sake," 
he  said,  "cut  out  all  this  jingo  talk.  You're  one 
of  these  Americans  that  are  going  to  help  get  us 
mixed  up  in  this  thing.  What  business  is  it  of  ours 
what  they  do  in  Europe?  We're  out  of  it,  and  if 
only  we  behave  like  sensible  people  instead  of  like 
a  lot  of  darned  fools,  we  can  keep  out. 

"Here  we  are,"  he  continued,  "three  thousand 
miles  away.  The  country  was  never  so  pros 
perous;  business  never  in  better  shape;  everybody 
making  plenty  of  money;  everything  going  along 
great.  And  now  you,  and  a  lot  of  people  like  you, 
want  to  gum  up  the  whole  thing  by  horning  in  and 
taking  sides  and  hollering  your  heads  off  for  armies 
and  navies  and  things! 

"What  do  you  mean,  you  folks  that  yell  for  pre 
paredness,  for  a  big  army,  and  a  big  navy  ?  Haven't 
you  got  sense  enough  to  know  that  big  armies  and 
big  navies  cost  a  lot  of  money?  Do  you  want  to 


60  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

go  and  get  your  taxes  increased,  and  the  price  of 
everything  raised?  Do  you  want  to  give  up  your 
business,  and  leave  your  home,  and  go  and  serve  in 
the  army?" 

Drake  nodded. 

"If  necessary,"  he  said,  quietly. 

"Well,  I  don't,"  said  Gray.  "And  these  people 
that  aren't  satisfied  to  let  well  enough  alone;  that 
aren't  satisfied  to  stay  at  home  and  attend  to  their 
own  business  and  let  the  rest  of  the  world  attend 
to  its,  make  me  sore.  And  the  ones  that  make  me 
particularly  sore  are  those  fool  Americans  that  go 
abroad  knowing  that  war  exists  and  that  they're 
liable  to  be  blown  up,  and  then  put  up  a  holler  when 
it  happens  to  'em.  If  they  don't  want  to  get  tor 
pedoed,  why  don't  they  stay  at  home,  the  darned 
fools?" 

He  grunted,  disgustedly. 

"They  couldn't  get  me  over  there,  you  can  bet 
your  sweet  life,"  he  said.  "No,  sir!  I'm  neutral," 
he  went  on,  "and  I'm  going  to  stay  neutral.  And 
furthermore,  I'm  going  to  stay  at  home  and  mind 
my  own  business.  I  should  worry  about  Europe! 
They  got  themselves  into  all  this  mess.  Let  them 
get  themselves  out." 

A  boy  came  in. 

"Cable  for  you,  Mr.  Gray,"  he  said. 


THE   NEUTRAL  61 

Gray  took  the  envelope;  tore  it  open;  unfolded 
the  single  sheet  it  contained,  and  read.  .  .  .His 
eyes  squinted.  He  took  a  short  breath. 

"Well,  my  Lord!"  he  muttered,  feebly.  "Well, 
for  the  love  of — now  what  do  you  know  about — 
well,  I'm  a— well  I'll  be  dad-blamed !" 

And  without  a  word  he  rose  and  walked  out  of 
the  room. 

I  MET  my  friend  at  the  dock.  He  came  down  the 
gangplank  tastefully  gowned  in  a  rain  coat,  a  pair 
of  carpet-slippers  three  sizes  too  big  for  him,  a  little 
boy's  cap  of  white  canvas  around  which  was  a  blue 
band  bearing  in  gold  the  words,  La  Provence,  a 
middy  blouse,  and  a  pair  of  overalls. 

I  stared  in  startled  wonderment.  Usually  he  was 
sartorially  effulgent. 

He  explained  as  we  shook  hands. 

"Von  Tirpitz,"  he  said. 

"Good  heavens!"  I  cried.  "You  weren't  on  the 
America?" 

He  nodded. 

"On  and  off,"  he  said. 

"When  they  torpedoed  her?" 

Again  he  nodded. 

"Come  to  my  rooms,"  he  said,  "and  I'll  tell  you 
about  it  while  I  change  my  clothes.  I've  been  hav- 


62  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

ing  a  terrible  time  with  these  things.  I  can't  re 
member  whether  I'm  a  stoker  or  a  look-out.  Still, 
blown-ups  can't  be  choosers;  and  it  was  very  nice 
of  the  steward,  the  stewardess,  the  mess-boy — 
mess  being  correct — and  the  crew  of  the  captain's 
gig  to  give  me  these  things.  Otherwise  I'd  have 
had  to  stay  in  bed  or  run  the  risk  of  disorganising 
the  morals  of  the  entire  ship.  .  .  . 

"Hey!  Taxi!"  he  called;  and,  casting  a  cursory 
glance  down  at  his  heterogeneous  habiliments,  he 
remarked,  "For  once,  at  least,  I  feel  that  I  am  about 
to  enjoy  going  through  the  customs." 

At  his  rooms,  bathed,  shaven,  in  fresh  and  im 
peccable  raiment,  he  told  me  what  had  happened. 

This  is  how  he  told  it: 

\ 

IT  was  just  curiosity,  I  suppose.  I  wanted  to 
go  to  Europe  to  see  what  made  it  tick.  They  don't 
pull  off  a  war  like  this  every  year,  thank  God ;  and 
I  wanted  to  see  what  it  was  doing  to  the  people; 
how  they  were  taking  it;  and  I  had  a  few  letters 
that  I  thought  might  get  me  to  the  fighting.  But 
I'll  tell  you  about  that  some  other  time. 

Nothing  happened  on  the  way  over  until  we  got 
about  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  off  the  Irish  coast. 
It  was  a  nice  day.  Three  of  us  were  playing  ship 
golf ;  a  chap  named  Henderson,  a  little  lad  with  eye- 


THE   NEUTRAL  63 

glasses  and  a  tummy ;  I  forgot  his  name ;  and  myself. 

I  was  just  squaring  away  from  my  drive  at  the 
fifth  hole,  which  lay  between  the  bitts,  with  a  cap 
stan  for  a  hazard,  when  the  Little  Lad  let  out  a  yell. 

"A  submarine!"  he  hollers. 

"What!"  I  asked,  slicing  my  drive  into  a  flock 
of  stokers  that  had  come  up  for  air. 

"Look!"  he  says,  pointing  about  three  degrees 
abaft  the  lee  quarter.  Henderson  and  I  looked. 
And  sure  enough,  there  was  a  periscope  sticking  up 
out  of  the  water  and  not  over  half  a  mile  or  so — 
anyhow,  it  was  a  whole  lot  too  near. 

"Tell  the  captain!"  yells  the  Little  Lad.  And 
then,  without  waiting,  he  piles  up  the  companion- 
way.  He  knocks  over  an  old  lady  and  steps  entirely 
on  a  valuable  Pekinese  and  nails  the  captain  just 
as  he  is  coming  out  of  the  pilot-house. 

All  he  can  say  is,  "Look,  Cap!" 

It's  enough.    The  Cap  looks. 

"Good  God!"  he  says,  and  busts  into  the  pilot 
house  and,  pushing  aside  the  officer  in  charge,  be 
gins  to  pull  at  ropes  and  handles  and  gongs  and 
things  until  he  looks  like  a  Family  of  Swiss  Bell 
Ringers. 

In  about  seven  seconds  there  was  the  most  alarm 
ing  alacrity,  to  say  nothing  of  the  most  unprece 
dented  celerity,  that  you  ever  saw.  Looking  over 


64  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

the  rail,  I  see  the  flock  of  stokers  disappear  down 
a  deckhole  as  one  man.  It's  like  chuting  coal  into 
a  cellar.  And  in  another  minute,  clouds  of  smoke 
begin  to  pour  out  of  the  funnels;  white  water  is 
whipped  up  by  the  screws,  and,  taking  a  zig-zag 
course,  the  ship  starts  off  like  a  frightened  fish. 

And  the  passengers !  .   .   . 

It's  funny  how  danger  affects  different  people. 
Some  it  makes  grim  and  silent;  others  noisy  and 
abusive;  others  weak  and  pitiable;  and  still  others 
absent-minded  and  helpless. 

The  Old  Lady,  whose  dog  the  Little  Lad  had 
stepped  on,  took  a  pillow  in  her  arms,  and  carefully 
placing  the  Pekinese  beneath  her,  sat  down  on  it 
and  began  to  cry. 

Henderson,  who  was  beside  me,  said  something 
that  you  couldn't  print  and  stood  silent,  watching 
tensely,  like  a  spectator  at  a  race.  .  .  . 

A  dignified  old  party  who  had  been  taking  a 
siesta  when  the  alarm  was  pulled,  came  out  on  deck 
dressed  in  a  silk  hat  and  a  union  suit.  His  daughter 
came  after  him,  carrying  his  pants.  He  put  his 
arms  into  the  legs  thereof;  and  they  both  thought 
he  was  dressed. 

But  it  was  the  Little  Lad  with  the  tummy  that 
furnished  most  of  the  excitement.  He  stood  by 
the  rail,  shaking  his  fist  and  howling  curses,  while 


THE   NEUTRAL  65 

a  female  missionary  who  was  returning  from  her 
vacation,  stood  beside  him  and  encouraged  him 
eagerly  to  further  profanities. 

"You  swine!"  he  yowls,  shaking  his  fist  at  the 
submarine,  now  awash  and  ripping  through  the 
water  behind  us.  "You  double-dashed,  triple- 
asterisked,  exclamation-point  swine!  Attack  a 
peaceful  ship  full  of  non-combatants,  would  you? 
Why,  blankety,  blinkety,  blunkety  blank  your  triply- 
qualified  souls  to  noun!  You  just  let  me  get  to  land 
and  I'll  fight  you  with  anything  from  a  lead  pipe 
to  a  supreme  court!" 

My,  but  he  was  a  wonderful  cusser!  With  him, 
it  was  not  a  science.  It  was  an  art. 

The  ship  was  tearing  through  the  water  now,  a 
mile  this  way,  a  mile  that,  the  bow  wave  piling  in 
huge,  white  masses  that  slithered  along  her  sides. 
.  .  .  And  back  of  her  was  the  submarine,  dull,  sul 
len,  threatening,  his  back  awash  in  the  seas.  .  .  . 

Even  as  we  looked,  a  little  port  on  top  opened. 
.  .  .  Men  came  out.  ...  A  gun  rose  from  some 
where;  and  a  shell  came  whining  over  us.  ... 

The  Old  Lady  got  up  from  the  dog ;  but  its  hope 
ful  expression  promptly  vanished  when  she  sat 
right  down  on  it  again.  Henderson  muttered  an 
other  something.  The  Dignified  Old  Party  climbed 
into  a  lifeboat  and  his  daughter  followed. 


66  SCARS  AND   STRIPES 

But  it  was  again  the  Little  Lad  by  the  rail  that 
shone.  The  cussing  that  he  had  done  before  was 
but  an  amateur  tryout  to  the  splendid  and  truly 
artistic  achievements  that  he  now  attained.  And 
the  Female  Missionary  got  behind  him  and  boosted 
hard.  She  seemed  a  firm  believer  in  the  theory  that 
words  constitute  force.  If  such  had  been  the  case, 
the  red  hot  missiles  that  the  Little  Lad  was  dis 
charging  would  have  sunk  the  Queen  Elisabeth  in 
ten  seconds. 

Another  shell  whined  above  our  heads.  It  tore 
a  hole  in  the  forward  funnel  and  buried  itself  far 
beyond  in  the  sea.  .  .  .  And  then  another.  .  .  . 

I  can't  tell  you  how  long  the  chase  kept  up.  An 
hour,  perhaps;  perhaps  two;  or  maybe  three.  .  .  . 
On  and  on  we  zigzagged.  .  .  .  After  us  came  the 
submarine,  firing  shell  after. shell.  .  .  .  Three  times 
we  were  hit,  but  in  no  vital  spot.  .  .  .  And  every 
time  a  shell  screamed  by,  the  Old  Lady  would  get 
up  from  the  dog  and  sit  down  on  it  again,  Hender 
son  would  mutter,  the  Little  Lad  would  boil  over, 
and  the  Dignified  Old  Party  in  the  plug  hat  would 
shove  his  head  under  a  seat  of  the  lifeboat  and 
promise  his  daughter  that  if  she  ever  wanted  to  go 
nursing  again  it  would  have  to  be  within  the  three- 
mile  limit  of  South  Bend. 


THE   NEUTRAL  67 

And  then  somebody  said,  "Look !"  and  this  time 
pointed  forward. 

It  was  a  British  destroyer.  She  had  got  our 
wireless  and  was  shooting  towards  us  like  a  tor 
pedo,  smoke  lying  flat  behind  her,  spray  shooting 
over  her  tiny  stacks.  .  .  . 

I  have  seen  many  beautiful  sights  in  my  time — 
the  Alps,  sunset  in  the  Sahara,  the  Grand  Canon, 
Rio  Janeiro  harbour  and  the  Bank  of  England.  But 
I  want  to  tell  you,  my  son,  that  the  sight  of  that 
low,  lean,  hungry-looking  destroyer  made  all  the 
rest  of  'em  look  like  a  wet  afternoon  in  Lincoln, 
Nebraska.  I  wanted  to  have  her  picture  taken  and 
wear  it  in  a  locket ! 

The  submarine  saw  it,  too.  With  a  parting  shot, 
she  turned  and  wallowed  away,  slowly  sinking  be 
neath  the  water.  .  .  .  The  Little  Lad  sent  it  on  its 
journey  with  a  parting  volley  of  curse- words,  husky 
but  deeply  sincere.  Henderson  threw  back  his 
head,  straightening  tense  shoulders.  The  Old  Lady 
looked  at  the  pillow  she  was  hugging;  gazed  about 
her  perplexedly;  got  up;  picked  up  her  flattened 
pet;  and  started  in  to  readjust  it  into  its  former 
spherical  shape.  The  Dignified  Old  Party  climbed 
down  out  of  the  life-boat.  His  daughter  got  a 
peep  at  him ;  said,  "Ah !"  shrilly,  and  both  stepped 
hastily  into  the  engine-room. 


68  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

The  Little  Lad  asked  the  first  officer  if  the  cap 
tain  of  the  destroyer  was  coming  aboard.  He  said 
he  wanted  to  kiss  him.  .  .  . 

It  was  while  we  were  warping  into  the  dock. 

The  Little  Lad  with  the  Tummy  was  standing  be 
side  me,  his  travelling-bag  in  his  hand. 

"Know  anybody  over  here?"  he  asked  me.  "I 
mean,  anybody  of  any  account?" 

I  told  him  that  I  had  some  letters  to  people  that 
rawthah  mattahed. 

"I've  got  a  tough  job  ahead  of  me,"  he  said; 
"good  and  tough."  He  paused.  "It's  my  daughter," 
he  went  on.  "She  was  in  a  motor  smash-up  a  little 
over  a  year  ago.  When  help  came  all  the  others 
were  there,  but  she  was  gone.  The  only  explana 
tion  that  any  one  has  ever  been  able  to  give  is  that 
she  was  hit  on  the  head  and  lost  her  memory. 

"A  week  ago  I  got  word  that  she  was  in  a  hos 
pital,  in  Switzerland — Geneva.  She  had  been 
found  wandering  about  in  the  streets  in  a  dazed 
condition,  and  they  had  taken  her  in.  The  message 
said  that  while  she  was  still  far  from  well,  she  had 
got  back  her  memory  enough  to  tell  them  who 
she  was.  .  .  .  That's  my  reason  for  coming  over. 
.  .  .  And  now  the  thing  is  to  find  a  way  for  me  to 
get  to  Geneva  and  bring  her  back  with  me." 

"I  think  I  can  fix  it,"  I  said.    I  told  him  where 


THE   NEUTRAL  69 

I  was  to  stay.  "Come  around  to-morrow  evening, 
about  nine." 

He  wrung  my  hand. 

"You  won't  be  sorry,"  he  said.  "She's  a  wonder 
ful  girl,  that  daughter  of  mine.  .  .  .  Like  her 
mother.  .  .  .  You  must  come  to  see  us,  when  we 
all  get  back  home  again." 

I  said  I'd  be  glad  to  go.  And  we  joined  in  the 
stream  of  debarking  passengers.  .  .  . 

I  had  a  lot  to  attend  to  next  day.  But  I  managed 
to  arrange  so  that  he  should  get  a  pass  to  Geneva, 
and  to  get  a  letter  that  would  enable  him  to  bring 
his  daughter  back  to  England  when  she  got  well 
enough  to  make  the  trip. 

The  next  night,  at  about  nine,  I  was  sitting  in 
the  lobby  of  the  hotel,  waiting  for  him,  when  all  of 
a  sudden  I  heard  a  gun  go  off.  Bang!  And  then 
another;  and  almost  immediately  a  whole  flock  of 
'em. 

At  which  the  bell-boys,  the  porters,  a  covey  of 
chambermaids,  a  couple  of  clerks  and  all  the  cus 
tomers  poured  out  of  the  lobby  and  into  the  street. 
I  detained  a  uniformed  menial  long  enough  to  ask 
him  the  cause  of  the  noise  and  the  ensuing  exodus. 

"Zeps!"  he  yells,  and  off  he  goes. 

"Zeps?"  I  says.  And  then  a  light  breaks  in  upon 
me. 


70  SCARS   AND    STRIPES 

"Oh/5  I  think.    "He  means  Zeppelins !" 

And  then,  as  if  to  corroborate  my  discovery, 
"WHANG!!"  A  bomb!  The  whole  sky  was  lit 
up  with  a  flash  like  a  million  bolts  of  lightning. 
And  the  noise  that  accompanied  sounded  like  the 
explosion  that  would  result  if  you  poured  the  At 
lantic  ocean  into  hell.  .  .  .  You  could  hear  glass 
crashing,  and  pieces  of  pavement.  ...  A  dull  rum 
bling  as  the  fronts  of  houses  caved  in. 

I  rushed  out  into  the  street.  It  was  crowded 
with  people,  half-stunned,  dazed. 

Just  down  the  block  it  had  happened.  There  was 
a  hole  in  the  pavement  that  you  could  have  buried 
a  whale  in.  The  fronts  were  torn  from  four  or 
five  houses.  .  .  . 

It  had  killed  a  couple  of  children  asleep  in  bed. 
.  .  .  The  mangled  body  of  one  was  lying  shattered 
against  the  jagged  wall,  blown  against  it  so  hard 
that  it  stuck  there.  .  .  .  Bright  blood  was  oozing 
from  beneath  yellow  curls,  to  run  down  a  sun- 
kissed  little  cheek.  .  .  .  We  saw  it  in  the  light  of 
the  burning  house  next  door,  from  which  came  first 
screams,  then  groans — then  silence.  .  .  . 

And  an  old  woman  had  been  killed  while  alight 
ing  from  an  omnibus.  .  .  . 

And  in  the  morning  would  come  the  report: 


THE   NEUTRAL  71 

Last  night  our  air  craft  again  attacked  the  forti 
fied  city  of  London,  with  the  usual  completely  satis 
factory  results. 

Two  fortified  children  asleep  in  a  fortified  bed! 

A  fortified  old  lady  alighting  from  a  fortified 
omnibus ! 

And  that's  what  they  call  war! 

We  helped  bring  down  the  children — dead  little 
bodies  still  warm  with  the  little  lives  that  so  swiftly, 
so  terribly,  had  been  taken  from  them.  ...  We 
laid  them  on  the  sidewalk,  before  the  torn  front 
of  what  had  been  their  home.  .  .  .  Their  mother 
and  their  father,  stunned  to  unconsciousness,  came 
to  their  senses.  .  .  .  They  saw  their  dead.  .  .  . 
Little  dead  hands  limp.  .  .  .  Little  dead  eyes  star 
ing  sightlessly  straight  up  at  the  monster  that  slug 
gishly  wheeled,  and  turned,  and  made  ready  for 
more  murder — more,  and  more,  and  more.  ... 
The  father  stood  there,  his  fingers  twitching.  .  .  . 
God  mercifully  took  again  the  mother's  senses.  .  .  r., 

The  policeman  beside  me  was  cursing  thickly. 
I  looked  at  him.  He  was  crying.  .  .  . 

He  saw  me  looking.    He  blinked,  apologetically. 

"I've  two  of  me  own,"  he  mumbled.  "Little 
tykes,  too — like  them." 


72  SCARS   AND    STRIPES 

He  needn't  have  apologised  for  crying.  .  .  . 
He  was  not  alone. 

Came  from  behind  us,  somewhere  in  the  firelight 
gloom,  a  man's  voice.  It  sounded  strangely  famil 
iar. 

"For  the  love  of  heaven,"  it  howled,  "take  this 
triply-qualified,  quadruply-adjectived  blinkety- 
blankety  blunk  thing  off  me  so's  I  can  get  at  'em. 
First  the  doubly  blanked  dashes  try  to  blow  me  up ; 
and  then  they  try  to  blow  me  down,  double-dash 
'em.  I  only  wish  to  blank  I  was  an  angel!  I'd 
show  'em  a  few  tricks  about  flying  around  and 
dropping  things  on  people!" 

Yes,  it  was  the  Little  Lad.  He  had  been  coming 
along  in  a  cab.  And  the  manner  in  which  the 
cataclysm  had  distributed  things  had  left  the  cab 
on  top  of  him  and  the  horse  on  top  of  that.  But 
I'll  give  him  credit.  When  we  rolled  the  debris  off 
him,  he  came  to  his  feet  with  a  spoke  in  each  hand. 

And,  drawing  back,  he  slammed  first  one,  and 
then  the  other,  at  the  great,  sluggish  monster  there 
in  the  air,  a  mile  above  him !  .  .  .  And  everything 
he  called  it,  and  everything  he  said  about  the  men 
that  conceived,  and  made,  and  operated  it,  was  true ! 

I  took  him  to  my  rooms  and  straightened  him 
out,  told  him  what  I  had  done  for  him,  and,  with 


THE   NEUTEAL  73 

thanks  in  which  curses  were  strangely  mingled,  he 
departed. 

I  was  so  busy  the  next  few  weeks,  that  I  plumb 
forgot  all  about  the  Little  Lad.  Imagine  my  sur 
prise  then,  when,  on  mounting  the  gang-plank  of 
the  America  for  the  return  trip,  I  bumped  right 
into  him. 

"Now  what  the "  he  began.  Then  he  saw 

who  it  was  and  let  out  a  whoop. 

"I  got  her  all  right!"  he  yells,  excitedly.  "Look'/' 

He  brought  her  beside  him — his  daughter.  In 
terestedly,  I  did  as  he  bade. 

He  had  said  that  she  was  pretty.  It  was  a  cal 
umny.  For  she  was  more  than  pretty — much  more. 
Grey  eyes,  she  had,  clear  and  soft,  with  the  frank 
ness  of  a  child's — and  the  gentleness  of  a  woman's. 
And  the  hand  that  she  laid  in  mine  was  little  and 
warm  and  firm.  .  .  .  Dogs  and  horses  and  children 
would  have  loved  her — which  means  far  more  than 
the  love  of  men  and  women.  Children  and  animals 
love  with  their  hearts ;  men  and  women  confuse  that 
love  with  brains. 

She  was  about  twenty,  I  suppose.  I'm  telling 
you  all  this  about  her  because — because — well,  I'm 
a  tough  old  bachelor;  but  it's  not  from  choice,  and 
when  I  saw  her  .  .  .  There  are  women,  and  women. 
Some  you  never  know.  Others,  the  minute  you  see 


74  SCABS   AND   STRIPES 

them,  you  feel  as  though  you'd  come  home;  that 
you  could  tell  them  the  things  that  lie  in  every  man 
untold;  that  in  them  lie  Rest,  and  Peace  and  Hap 
piness,  and  all  the  things  that  make  life  worth  liv 
ing.  .  .  .  That  was  the  kind  she  was.  .  ..,  .  The 
only  one  in  all  the  world  I've  ever  met.  .  .  . 

I  don't  know  how  long  I  stood  looking  into  her 
eyes.  Hers  did  not  turn. 

We  moved  to  the  deck.  The  Little  Lad  was  fuss 
ing  around.  He  had  a  steward  bring  a  chair  for 
me,  and  put  it  next  to  theirs. 

"And  I'll  fix  you  at  our  table/'  he  said  to  me, 
over  his  shoulder,  as  he  passed ;  "that  is,  if  you're 
alone.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  you,  God  knows  how 
I'd  ever  have  got  her  here." 

He  pinched  her  cheek. 

"Love  the  old  man  ?"  he  asked.  His  voice  broke 
a  little. 

She  looked  up,  eyes  brimming. 

"Daddy!"  she  said,  softly;  and  she  kissed  him. 
...  A  child  she  was — and  yet  a  woman.  .  .  . 

We  sat  up  late  that  night,  talking,  in  the  moon 
light.  .  .  .  God  knows  all  I  said  to  her.  .  .  .  Little 
thoughts  that  I  had  held  hidden  in  the  storehouse 
of  my  soul  since  time  began  I  took  down  from 
their  shelves  and  laid  before  her.  .  .  .  Because  I 
knew  that  no  matter  how  poor  they  might  be,  she 


THE   NEUTRAL  75 

would  not  despise,  nor  laugh,  nor  criticise,  but  would 
Understand.  ...  In  every  man's  soul  they  lie, 
these  thoughts ;  in  most  they  die,  unborn.  .  .  . 

The  Little  Lad  fell  asleep.  ...  We  talked  on. 
.  .  .  She  let  me  look  a  little  into  her  soul,  too.  .  .  . 
It  made  me  ashamed  of  the  smallness  of  my  own. 
.  .  .  And  she  was  very  beautiful.  .  .  . 

The  next  day,  while  we  were  at  lunch,  it  hap 
pened.  There  was  no  warning — nothing!  .  .  . 
Peaceful  men  and  women,  in  a  great  ship,  on  the 
great  sea  that  God  has  given  alike  to  all  His  people. 
.  .  .  And  then  the  devil  with  his  hell  .  .  . 

An  explosion  that  shook  the  ship  to  its  heart. 
.  .  .  Flame,  smoke,  and  flying  bits  of  metal  and 
wood  and  human  flesh.  ...  A  maelstrom  of  piti 
ful,  frightened  women,  horror-bitten  men,  and  help 
less,  whimpering  children  that  did  not  understand. 
.  .  :.,  God!  How  could  they  understand?  When 
you  can't,  nor  can  I!  ...  To  kill  in  the  heat 
of  battle,  yes.  .  .  .  But  deliberately,  thinkingly, 
calmly  to  set  about  in  cold  blood  to  murder  peaceful, 
unarmed  men,  helpless,  gentle  women,  and  little 
children  fresh  from  the  arms  of  the  God  that  sent 
them  through  love  and  pain  to  live  upon  His 
earth.  .  .  . 

To  slaughter  these  as  mercilessly  as  one  would 
stick  a  pig!  And  without  even  that  excuse  for 


76  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

slaughter.  For  pigs  are  killed  to  be  eaten.  But 
why  do  they  slaughter  children?  I  don't  know. 
Nor  do  you.  .  .  .  But  perhaps  God  knows.  Per 
haps  they  have  told  him.  They  seem  much  in  His 
confidence. 

Through  all  the  awful  inferno,  we  rushed  to  the 
deck,  the  father  and  I,  the  daughter  between  us., 
.  .  .  The  ship  was  listing  heavily.  .  .  .  People 
rushed  about  screaming,  wailing,  begging  for 
mercy,  praying  to  God  to  save  them  from  the  awful 
death  that  had  come  so  swiftly,  so  fiendishly  upon 
them.  .  >.  . 

And  there,  across  the  sunlit  waters,  lay  that 
death;  a  dull,  sullen,  unclean  monster,  wallowing 
swinishly.  .  .  .  There  were  men  upon  its  slimy 
back.  .  .  .  Men  that  stood  calmly  watching  while 
fear-tortured  women  threw  their  babies  into  the 
sea  and  flung  themselves  in  after.  .  .  . 

The  lifeboats  on  the  port  side  could  not  be 
used;  the  list  was  so  great  that  it  had  swung  them 
inboard.  .  .  .  The  number  one  boat  on  the  star 
board  side  had  filled  with  swarming,  terror-stricken 
souls.  ...  It  began  to  descend.  .  .  .  The  block 
on  one  of  the  davits  jammed.  .  .  .  The  human  con 
tents,  struggling,  slipping,  screaming,  fell  in  little 
clusters  into  the  sea.  .  .  .  You  have  shaken  cater 
pillars  from  a  limb?  ...  It  was  like  that.  Only 


THE   NEUTRAL  77 

these  were  human  beings,  like  you  and  me.  Re 
member  that. 

Another  boat,  half -filled,  had  lowered  and  put 
away.  .  .  .  People  threw  themselves  after  it;  to 
miss  and  disappear  in  the  tortured  waters.  ...  A 
third  was  loading.  We  fought  to  reach  it;  but 
those  about  us  were  too  many,  and  too  mad. 

She  looked  up  at  me,  the  girl  by  my  side. 

"It's  no  use,"  she  said.  "And  I  am  not  afraid  to 
die." 

The  ship  gave  a  lurch.  We  seized  the  rail,  to 
keep  our  feet. 

The  father,  jaw  set,  eyes  narrowed,  looked 
swiftly  about. 

"She's  going,"  he  said,  grimly.     "Jump!" 

There  came  a  rush  of  waters,  like  a  thousand 
Niagaras.  I  tried  my  best  to  hold  her.  She  was 
torn  from  my  hands  as  one  might  tear  a  feather 
from  a  child's.  .  .  .  Down  I  went,  down  and  down. 
.  .  .  My  lungs  were  bursting.  ...  I  came  once 
again  to  the  surface  where  was  God's  sunlight — and 
the  bodies  of  men  and  women.  There  were  pieces 
of  her  sleeves  in  each  of  my  hands. 

I  tried  to  find  her.  There  were  bodies  every 
where.  A  man's,  torn  in  two  parts,  floating  in  a 
circle  of  red-blue  water.  ...  A  woman's,  with  a 
baby  tight  against  its  breast,  her  dead  arms  about 


78  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

its  dead  body,  its  little  dead  fingers  clasped  about 
her  neck.  .  .  .  Bubbling,  horrid  screams!  Low, 
bubbling  wails.  .  .  . 

I  saw  Her.  She  was  clinging,  twenty  feet  away, 
to  a  bit  of  wreckage.  But  bodies  lay  between. 

I  fought  them.  If  you  have  never  fought  the 
dead,  don't  long  to.  ...  Hell  has  nothing  new  to 
show  me  now. 

I  was  almost  at  her  side.  .  .  .  Her  hands  slipped 
from  the  bit  of  wreckage  to  which  she  clung;  she 
had  been  long  ill,  you  know.  .  .  .  Her  head  sunk 
beneath  the  water. 

Three  bodies  lay  between  us.  I  remember  the 
first.  It's  dead  face  came  full  against  my  own  as 
I  fought  it  away.  It  was  very  like  my  mother's. 
.  .  .  The  same  kind  eyes,  the  same  gentle  lips,  the 
same  loving-kindness  that  had  lived  within  before 
— before  this  awful  cataclysm  of  war  came.  .  .  . 

But  I  fought  even  that,  too.  I  fought  that,  and 
the  next.  And  but  one  lay  between  as  Her  face 
came  again  to  the  sunlight.  .  .  .  Her  dark  hair 
floated  about  her  in  the  water,  like  some  strange, 
silken  seaweed.  .  .  .  God,  how  I  fought  to  reach 
her !  .  .  .  She  saw  me.  .  .  .  Grey,  clear  eyes  looked 
into  my  own,  the  eyes  that  were  of  a  woman-child. 

She  saw  me.     She  smiled,  a  little.   .    .    .  Again 


THE   NEUTRAL  79 

the  water  crept  above  her  lips.     But  the  eyes  still 
looked.    The  lips  beneath  the  water  still  smiled. 

I  think  I  struck  the  body  that  lay  between  us. 
...  I  was  quite  mad,  now.  ...  I  fought  it  as 
though  it  were  alive,  some  brutal,  unclean  Thing 
that  held  me  from  my  own  while  it  did  murder.  At 
length  I  won.  I  flung  myself  past  it. 

But  she  was  gone.    Where  she  had  been,  was 
only  water.  .  .  . 

That's  all  I  remember.  They  told  me  afterward 
that  I  was  picked  up  by  one  of  the  boats  which 
drifted  about  until  La  Provence  came. 

My  friend  finished.  He  sat,  looking  out  the  win 
dow  into  the  gathering  dusk. 

"Good  God!"  I  exclaimed. 

He  said  nothing. 

"And  what  ?"  I  asked,  at  length,  thinking  to  turn 
his  mind,  "became  of  the  girl's  father?  the  Little 
Lad?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Drowned,  I  suppose,"  he  answered.  "Drowned 
like  all  the  other  Americans  that  the  Beast  has  mur 
dered  to  show  us  how  cultured  it  is." 

Of  a  sudden  there  came  from  without  the  sound 
of  men  fighting.  My  friend  leaned  out  the  window. 

"A  row?"  I  asked. 


80  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

My  friend  nodded.  "Let's  go  down  and  look 
it  over,"  he  said.  "I'd  even  go  to  a  peace  meeting 
to  get  my  mind  off  what  it's  seen." 

We  descended. 

In  the  middle  of  the  street  a  little  man  with  nose 
glasses  and  running  to  embonpoint,  was  seated  on 
the  back  of  another  man  who  was  lying  face  down 
on  the  asphalt.  The  little  man  had  the  other  by 
the  ears  and  was  addressing  him  copiously,  em 
phasising  his  remarks  from  time  to  time  by  bring 
ing  the  other's  head  up  and  then  slamming  it,  nose 
down,  against  the  pavement.  It  was  a  ceremonial 
at  once  picturesque  and  remorseless. 

"Why,  you  double-dashed,  triple-asterisked  ex 
clamation  point  blank!"  the  little  man  howled. 
"Why,  blinkety,  blankety,  blunkety  blink!  I'll 
show  you  whether " 

My  friend  gasped. 

"Good  heavens!"  he  cried.  "If  it  isn't  the  Little 
Lad  with  the  Tummy!" 

I,  too,  had  gasped.  For  it  was  also  Gray !  Gray, 
of  the  club !  Gray  the  pacifist !  Gray  the  Neutral ! 
Gray,  who  didn't  believe  in  fighting! 

We  rushed  to  his  side. 

"Here,  here!"  cried  my  friend.  "What  do  you 
want  to  do?  Kill  him?  Let  the  man  up !  Let  him 
up,  I  say!" 


THE   NEUTRAL  81 

Gray  looked  at  us  over  his  shoulder. 

"Not  until  the  son-of-a-gun  gives  three  cheers 
for  Uncle  Sam !"  he  howled. 

He  turned  again  to  his  victim. 

"D'jer  hear  that?'*  he  demanded.  "Three  rous 
ing  cheers  now!  Three  cheers,  I  say!  Cm* on, 
now.  One- two-three !  Hip,  hip,  hooray!" 

The  cheers  were  given.  Gray  rose  to  his  feet. 
His  victim  stood  not  on  the  order  of  his  going.  He 
disappeared  even  before  we  had  had  a  good  look 
at  him. 

Gray  dusted  off  his  clothes. 

"I  rather  think/5  he  said,  complacently,  "that  I 
taught  that  poor  boob  something  about  prepared 
ness  that  he  won't  forget  in  a  hurry." 

"But  for  goodness'  sake,"  I  asked.  "What's  it 
all  about?  What  were  you  fighting  for,  anyway?" 

Gray  breathed  hard,  like  an  old  war  horse. 

"Why,"  he  explained,  "that  triple-blanked  pin- 
head  was  making  a  speech  against  preparedness, 
and  bawling  out  Uncle  Sam.  And  I  was  getting 
hotter  and  hotter.  'And  then  when  he  came  to  the 
place  where  he  said  that  if  Americans  didn't  have 
sense  enough  to  stay  at  home,  they  deserved  to  be 
killed,  I  boiled  over  and  hopped  him." 

Even  then  I  didn't  fully  understand.  It  had 
come  too  suddenly. 


82  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

"But,"  I  protested,  "I  thought  you  were  neu 
tral?" 

"Neutral  be  hanged !"  he  howled.  "Wait  until  I 
can  get  a  steamer  back  to  France!  I'll  show  you 
how  neutral  I  am!  To-night  I'm  forty-four.  But 
the  first  recruiting  office  I  hit  will  see  me  swearing 
off  years  as  though  they  were  taxes !  Those  triple- 
dashed,  quadruply-asterisked  blinkety,  blankety, 
blunks  can't  do  what  they  did  to  me  and  get  away 
with  it!" 

His  voice  changed;  changed^with  a  suddenness 
that  was  almost  startling.  He  brushed  the  back  of 
his  hand  across  his  eyes. 

"And  I  kind  of  hope  they  get  me  at  that,"  he 
said;  his  voice  was  so  low  that  it  was  with  diffi 
culty  that  I  heard.  "God  knows  I  haven't  much  to 
live  for  now.  .  .  ." 

Still  a  bit  perplexed,  I  looked  at  my  friend. 

"Why,  don't  you  see?"  my  friend  queried,  softly. 
"It  was  his  daughter.  ..." 

And  then  I  understood. 


CHAPTER  THREE 
"FOR  GOD  AND  KING!" 


CHAPTER  THREE 

"FOR  GOD  AND  KING!" 

A  CERTAIN  latter-day  sage,  from  beneath 
the  humour  of  Celtic  pseudonym,  has  as 
serted  that,  when  reference  be  made  as  to  service 
for  God  and  king,  he  would  wish  to  be  assured  that 
the  Senior  Member  of  the  firm  has  been  consulted. 

Connection  lies  between  this  and  that  bombastic 
bellow  of  the  Dark  Ages  that  the  King  can  do  no 
wrong.  Perhaps,  in  the  days  when  first  this  cry 
came  crashing  from  the  hairy  mouths  of  men  whose 
only  respect  was  for  a  hand  more  heavy  and  a 
heart  more  foul  than  their  own,  this  was  so.  Then 
it  was  that  might  made  right — only  the  weak  of 
body  and  the  meek  of  soul  were  wrong. 

However,  antedating  by  a  little  the  coming  of  the 
Bible  with  gold  edges,  appeared  Wrong  as  we  know 
it.  But  the  panoplied  phrase  persists — as  absurdly 
incongruous  and  as  abjectly  ridiculous  as  a  knight 
in  full  armour  tilting  against  a  twelve-pound  pro 
jectile;  eventually  to  be  as  futile.  But  that  is  not 
yet;  for  the  human  race  is  young,  slothful  of  mind 
and  very  ignorant.  So  the  Divine  Right  that  is  of 

85 


86  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

might  still  rules  to  bathe  the  world  in  blood.    But 
it  will  pass. 
However * 

ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  king.  He  himself 
believed  not  in  Divine  Right.  It  is  doubtful  if 
there  is  a  king  who  does.  However,  his  people  did 
believe ;  and  that,  to  the  king,  was  all  that  mattered. 

The  king  did  not  believe  that  he  could  do  no 
wrong;  for  he  had  occasional  gleams  from  an  atro 
phying  intelligence;  and  his  conscience,  though  fast 
dying  from  the  undue  burdens  it  was  forced  to  bear, 
yet  was  not  quite  dead,  and  sometimes  called  to  him 
in  the  night  when  he  was  not  too  drunk  to  listen. 
However,  as  the  king's  subjects  believed  that  he 
could  do  no  wrong  (or,  at  least,  were  content  not 
to  argue  the  matter)  what  booted  the  personal  be 
liefs  of  the  king,  who  was  wise  enough  to  keep 
those  beliefs  to  himself?  Any  man,  even  a  Di 
vinely  Righted  king,  were  a  fool,  and  worse,  to 
question  his  pleasures. 

Like  all  kings,  this  king  had  a  queen.  This  was 
(for  the  queen,  at  least)  unfortunate;  but  it  was 
unavoidable;  for  kings,  like  stallions,  are  supposed 
to  live  mainly  for  posterity;  and  queens  are  only 
queens  when  nature  has  blessed  them  of  her  func 
tions.  It  is  but  a  short  step  from  the  royal  palace 


"FOR  GOD  AND  KING!"  87 

to  the  breeding-stables;  and  even  a  shorter  step 
back  again. 

The  king  loved  the  queen  as  much  as  the  stal 
lion  loves  the  mare;  no  more.  And  the  queen 

But  what  difference  does  it  make  ?  She  was  merely 
a  queen. 

The  king  was  with  the/  queen  only  at  times  when 
his  presence  was  demanded — levees,  and  the  open 
ing  of  bazaars,  at  celebrations,  and  at  reviews,  and 
when  little  potential  kings  and  queens  were  born 
into  the  world.  At  all  other  times  he  did  much  as 
he  chose — always  taking  excellent  care  not  to  upset 
in  the  minds  of  his  people  their  theories  anent  Di 
vine  Right,  and  the  regal  incapacity  for  wrongdo 
ing.  At  times,  that  which  the  king  did  caused  the 
queen  to  spend  long,  wet-eyed,  sleepless  nights. 
But  as  she  was  a  queen  first  and  a  woman  after 
ward,  again  it  did  not  matter.  How  could  it  ?  She 
had  been  fortunate  enough  to  give  birth  to  seven 
children  in  seven  years.  What  more  ought  a  queen 
to  expect? 

But  while  the  king  did  not  love  the  queen,  there 
was  a  woman  that  he  did  love.  He  knew  that  he 
loved  her.  He  knew  because  he  had  loved  half  a 
hundred  other  women  before.  And  if  he  loved 
those  half  hundred,  why  not  this?  Could  one  ask 
for  better  proof  of  love  than  that  ? 


88  SCARS   AND    STRIPES 

She  was  young,  this  woman;  young  and  very 
beautiful;  beautiful  of  face,  beautiful  of  body. 
Her  husband  thought  that,  too,  she  was  beautiful 
of  soul.  .  .  .  But,  like  many  husbands,  he  did  not 
know  his  wife  very  well.  He  made  of  her  what 
he  wanted  her  to  be;  and  that  he  loved  and  wor 
shipped. 

The  king  had  known  many  women;  he  had 
known  many  husbands.  Some  were  satisfied  with 
gold;  some  with  preferment.  But  this  one  seemed 
different.  His  eye  was  grey  and  clean;  his  jaw 
square  and  set.  .  .  .  The  king  was  troubled.  .  .  . 

And  then  the  Great  War  came.  And  with  it,  we 
come  to  our  story. 

THEY  had  been  rushed  to  the  front.  The  officer 
in  command  had  received  his  orders  only  that 
morning.  .  .  .  He  had  kissed  his  wife  good-bye, 
the  while  buckling  on  his  revolver.  She  was  very 
beautiful,  this  wife  of  his;  he  loved  her  as  it  is 
given  few  men  to  love,  and  few  women  to  be  loved  ; 
and  his  grey,  clean  eyes  grew  misty  as  he  kissed 
her.  .  .  .  Then  a  confused  rushing  of  armed  men, 
marching  swiftly  through  crowded  streets,  clamber 
ing  into,  and  on,  and  over  long  trains  of  jammed 
coaches.  .  .  . 

At  length  their  train  stopped.    There  were  other 


"FOR  GOD  AND  KING!"  89 

trains,  like  theirs,  many  of  them.  They  formed, 
in  companies.  .  .  .  From  God  knew  where,  in  all 
the  confusion,  came  orders.  And  they  began  to 
advance. 

They  met  the  wounded  first,  sunken-eyed,  wan- 
cheeked,  in  bloody  bandages.  .  .  .  Ambulances 
whose  floors  dripped  red  upon  the  bitten  road 
way.  .  .  .  There  was  a  far  mutter,  like  distant 
thunder.  .  .  . 

And  now  the  enemy  hundreds  of  them,  thousands, 
tens  of  thousands.  .  .  .  Like  great,  grey  snakes  they 
were  winding  their  way  across  the  stricken  country 
side,  stopping  now  and  then  to  coil — and  then  to 
loose  those  coils  and  leave  the  Thing  broken,  bleed 
ing,  while  on  they  crawled,  on,  and  on,  and  on 

Wild  rumors  reeled  through  the  trembling  air. 
Could  it  be  stopped — this  sullen,  relentless,  onward 
movement?  If  not — —  His  country,  for  which 
his  fathers  had  fought,  and  fought,  and  died,  to 
become  a  conquered  province!  The  liberties  of  its 
people  to  be  taken  from  them!  Its  men  slaugh 
tered;  its  women  violated!  .  .  .  The  officer's  lean, 
bronzed  hand  closed  over  the  butt  of  his  automatic ; 
his  grey  eyes  gleamed.  .  .  . 

And  then  the  battle! 

One  may  not  tell  much  of  fighting.  It  is  at  once 
so  incomprehensibly  big,  and  so  absurdly  little.  .  .  . 


90  SCARS  AND   STRIPES 

A  countryside  aflame  with  the  fire  and  smoke  and 
torment  of  a  hundred  hells.  .  .  .  The  buttons  on  a 
man's  uniform.  .  .  . 

The  Officer  found  himself  on  a  little  hill  with  the 
command  to  dig  himself  in.  ...  Already  the 
enemy  had  the  range  of  his  position;  and  even  as 
the  men  set  frantically  to  work  with  their  entrench 
ing  tools,  came  a  shell.  ...  It  exploded  fair  among 
them.  ...  It  seemed  unreal;  horribly  unreal.  .  .  . 
Where  but  a  moment  before  had  been  men,  swear 
ing,  sweating,  digging,  was  now  only  ^.  vast  hole. 
There  was  blood,  to  be  sure;  there  were  pieces  of 
flesh — an  arm,  a  leg,  a  head  torn  from  its  quivering 
trunk.  .  .  .  And  there  were  wounded,  screaming, 
muttering.  .  .  . 

The  Officer  grew  sick.  .  .  .  He  tried  to  see  who 
it  was  that  was  gone.  .  .  . 

But  there  was  no  time  for  that.  They  must  dig 
and  fight — dig  and  fight.  .  .  .  That  was  what  war 
was,  digging  and  fighting.  .  .  . 

There  came  another  shell.  And  more  men  were 
gone.  .  .  . 

And  now  the  enemy  were  charging.  Little  men, 
they  looked,  in  dull,  dusty  uniforms.  .  .  . 

Even  as  he  watched,  his  own  troops,  on  either 
side  of  the  hill  began  to  fall  back.  ...  A  retreat! 
.  .  .  His  jaw  set.  .  .  . 


"FOR  GOD  AND  KING!"  91 

His  Second  in  Command  saw,  too.  .  .  »  Sweat 
running  from  his  forehead,  he  looked  up.  *  .  .  The 
Officer's  eyes  half  closed.  .  .  . 

"Dig,"  he  said.    And  that  was  all. 

Another  shell  came.  .  .  .  More  men  were 
gone.  ...  A  flying  fragment  killed  the  horse  of  an 
orderly,  from  headquarters,  pitching  him  oft  on  his 
head.  .  .  .  He  came  up  to  the  Offcer,  spitting  dirt 
and  blood. 

Cursing  the  enemy  that  had  killed  his  horse,  he 
screamed  his  orders  to  the  Officer.  They  were  to 
hold  the  position  at  all  cost;  to  enfilade  the  ad 
vancing  enemy  when  they  tried  to  pass,  so  that  those 
on  either  side  of  the  hill  might  effect  a  safe  retreat. 

The  orderly  started  off,  cursing,  stumbling  over 
the  corpses.  He  had  gone  seventy  yards,  perhaps 
eighty,  when  it  happened.  ...  A  sheet  of  flame.  . . . 
The  Orderly's  field  glasses  fell  at  the  Officer's  feet. 
The  Officer  picked  them  up  and  stood  looking  at 
them,  vacantly.  .  .  . 

He  felt  a  little  stinging  swish  across  his  fore 
head.  And  his  eyes  were  filled  with  blood.  .  .  . 

He  drew  his  hand  across  them.  .  .  .  The  enemy 
were  nearer.  .  .  .  He  looked  for  his  Second  in 
Command.  .  .  .  The  Second  in  Command  was 
holding  his  hand  where  his  jaw  had  been;  over  it 
ran  a  cataract  of  blood. 


92  SCARS  AND   STRIPES 

The  Officer  remembered  his  orders.  So  that  was 
it!  They  were  a  sop — a  sop  to  be  thrown  to  the 
great  grey  snake  to  make  him  pause  in  his  crawling 
long  enough  that  others  might  escape. 

His  jaw  set  a  bit  tighter.  ...  If  there  must  be  a 
sop,  there  must  be.  All  men  can't  be  heroes ;  as  all 
men  can't  live  and  love  and  be  happy.  .  .  .  And  if 
it  must  be  he  that  is  to  die  that  others  may  live — 
war  is  war,  and  life  is  life,  even  as  death  is  but 
death.  .  .  .  There  came  to  him  dimly  in  all  the  hell- 
hurled  tumult  that  it  didn't  matter  much,  after  all — 
that  it  wouldn't  matter  much  if  only  it  weren't  for 
Her.  .  .  .  And  if  his  going  would  save  her  from 
the  Thing  so  horribly  worse  than  death  that  conquer 
ing  men  do  to  conquered  women God ! 

They  were  few  now,  his  men,  pitifully  few.  .  .  . 
Even  as  he  looked  more  were  down.  .  .  .  His  own 
orderly  was  among  them;  hardly  more  than  a  boy 
he  was,  a  boy  who  loved  all  men  and  whom  all  men 
loved.  .  .  .  They  couldn't  kill  him!  It  was  unfair, 
horribly  unfair!  The  boy  whom  children  loved,  to 
whose  feet  every  stray  dog  came  friendily.  .  .  . 

The  machine-guns  had  been  smashed  or  silenced 
save  one.  .  .  .  Two  men  were  operating  this,  one 
firing,  the  other  feeding.  .  .  . 

And  now  the  enemy  were  upon  them.  .  .  .  Like 
grey  waves,  they  foamed  up  the  hillside,  surging 


"FOR  GOD  AND  KING!"  93 

along  on  either  side  of  the  base.  .  .  .  fie  emptied  his 
automatic  blindly  at  the  surging  grey  torrent.  .  .  . 

He  heard  some  one  calling  to  him.  He  looked. 
One  of  the  men  at  the  gun  was  down;  a  bullet 
through  his  head,  striking  as  fair  between  the  eyes 
as  you  could  place  your  finger.  .  .  . 

The  Officer  threw  down  his  empty  gun.  Drag 
ging  the  fallen  body  to  one  side,,  he  took  his  place, 
firing,  firing,  firing  at  the  surging  grey  waves  that 
came  rolling  on  endlessly,  remorselessly.  .  .  . 

His  finger  pressing  the  trigger,  he  took  a  swift 
look  about  him.  .  .  .  All  were  down  now.  .  .  .  All 
gone.  .  .  .  All  dead  or  dying,  all  save  only  the  man 
beside  him  and — himself.  .  .  . 

His  gun  had  ceased  firing ;  he  pressed  the  trigger 
savagely.  .  .  .  But  it  wasn't  the  gun ;  it  was  the  man 
beside  him.  .  .  .  He  had  slipped  to  the  ground ;  there 
was  a  red  foam  flecking  his  lips.  .  .  .  He  thrust  out 
his  hand.  .  .  .  The  Officer  grasped  it  with  his  own, 
then  slipped  in  a  fresh  belt  of  cartridges.  .... 

Then  It  came.  It  was  as  though  some  one  had 
hit  him  on  the  chest  with  a  stick — a  fierce,  quick, 
savage  thrust.  ...  It  didn't  hurt  much.  .  .  .  He  felt 
dizzy  and  weak.  .  .  .  That  was  funny.  He  looked 
down  at  the  breast  of  his  uniform.  There  was  a 
great,  wet,  red  splotch.  His  breath  bubbled  in  his 
throat.  He  slipped  to  the  ground.  .  .  . 


94  SCARS  AND   STRIPES 

The  grey  seas  engulfed  him.  Countless  grey 
forms  were  all  about  him.  It  was  the  End.  .  .  . 

And  so  he  died.  But  before  the  soul  had  left  his 
body,  came  to  blood-streaked  lips  six  words.  The 
first  was  the  name  of  his  wife.  And  the  other  four : 

'Tor  God  and  King !" 

THE  king  sat  smoking.  Through  half -shut  eyes 
he  watched  the  woman  before  him.  She  was  very 
beautiful,  this  woman;  kings  usually  know  what  is 
beautiful  of  woman;  kings  usually  have  what  is 
beautiful  of  woman;  for,  being  kings,  they  have 
much  money  and  much  power;  and  money  and 
power  bring  beautiful  things. 

I  could  not  describe  this  woman  if  I  would;  nor 
would  I  if  I  could.  But  you  have  seen  beautiful 
women.  This  woman  was  probably  more  beautiful 
than  any  you  ever  saw.  And  the  king  looked  at 
her  through  half -shut  eyes.  .  .  . 

They  did  not  speak.  There  was  no  reason  why 
they  should.  They  both  knew  that  her  husband  had 
been  removed  from  the  board  of  strategy,  where  he 
would  have  been  of  great  value  to  his  country,  and 
sent  to  the  front,  where  he  could  be  of  but  little. 
And  they  both  knew  why  he  had  been  sent,  and  who 
had  sent  him.  Therefore  the  Beautiful  Woman  re- 


"FOR  GOD  AND  KING!"  95 

clined  before  the  king;  while  the  king  watched  her 
through  half -shut  eyes. 

And  they  both  knew,  too,  the  thought  within  their 
minds.  So  she  said  nothing.  She  was  a  very  beau 
tiful  woman  and  she  had  chosen  what  she  had 
chosen.  And  he?  Well,  was  he  not  a  king  by  di 
vine  right? 

And  a  king,  you  know,  can  do  no  wrong. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 
"SOMEWHERE  IN— 


CHAPTER  FOUR 


"SOMEWHERE  IN 


IT  was  springtime  in  France. 
Before  the  door  of  his  cottage,  sat  Pierre  Le- 
blanc.  The  soft,  sweet  scent  of  the  awakening  earth 
came  to  him;  the  humming  of  bees.  Before  him, 
the  fair  countryside,  vari-coloured  squares,  lush 
green,  dun,  dull  brown,  stretched  far  away  to  meet 
the  deep  blue  of  the  sky.  From  the  foot  of  the 
gently  sloping  hillside,  where  the  little  stream  sang 
ever  softly  to  itself,  came  the  lowing  of  fat  kine. 

All  this  Pierre  Leblanc  felt,  and  saw,  and  heard. 
And  he  was  content ;  nay,  happy.  To  himself  and 
his  good  wife  God  had,  indeed,  been  kind.  He  had 
given  them  another  child,  this  time  a  boy.  He  had 
given  them  a  wondrous  crop.  He  had  given  them 
health  and  wealth.  Eighty  francs  were  still  due 
him  for  goods  shipped  to  the  great  markets  of  the 
city.  And  Gervase,  the  apothecary,  owed  him  yet 
another  forty. 

And  so  Pierre  Leblanc,  sitting  by  the  doorway  of 
his  home,  was  content  with  all  the  world. 


100  SCAKS   AND   STRIPES 

A  little  child,  a  girl  of  four,  came  to  his  side, 
thrusting  a  sun-browned  little  hand  within  his  own. 
A  pretty  child  she  was,  dark-haired,  dark-eyed, 
cheeks  flushed  with  play.  She  leaned  against  his 
knee,  crossing  her  sturdy  little  legs  as  children  stand. 
Pierre  Leblanc  looked  down  at  her.  His  smile  met 
her  own. 

"Est  tu  fatigue,  p'tite?"  he  asked  softly. 

She  sighed. 

"Un  pen"  she  replied. 

And  she  sighed  again,  happily.  It  is  good  to  be  a 
child  and  tired. 

A  voice  hailed  him  from  the  gate.  It  was  Petit- 
jean,  whose  cottage  lay  next  door;  Petit  jean,  young 
and  tall  and  good  to  look  upon,  in  smock  and  huge, 
baggy  trousers. 

"I  have  come  from  the  village,"  he  said. 

"Yes  ?"  queried  Pierre  Leblanc,  stroking  the  tan 
gled  hair  of  the  child  at  his  knee. 

"There  is  strange  talk,"  said  Petit  jean,  "there,  in 
the  village." 

"Talk?"  asked  Pierre  Leblanc.    "Talk  of  what?" 

Petitjean  waited  a  moment.  His  gaze  drifted 
slowly  over  the  sun-filled  fields.  ...  It  was  absurd, 
of  course ;  impossible.  Pierre  Leblanc  would  think 
him  fou.  .  .  .  Nevertheless,  he  answered. 

"The  talk,"  he  said,  at  length,  "is  of  war." 


"SOMEWHEREIN  — ^> "  :     >  101. 

There  fell  a  pause.  The  wife  of  Pierre  Leblanc, 
young,  comely,  with  the  dark  hair  and  eyes  of  the 
little  girl,  and  the  full  bust  of  the  nursing  mother, 
came  into  the  doorway.  She  carried  the  baby,  their 
man-child,  in  her  arms. 

"War!"  she  said.  .  .  .  Then,  "War?" 

Petit  jean  nodded. 

"It  is  the  Germans,"  he  said. 

Pierre  Leblanc  had  looked  first  surprised ;  then  in 
credulous;  then  amused.  Now  he  lifted  his  head 
and  laughed  aloud. 

Pet  it  jean  watched  him. 

"You  laugh,"  he  said,  at  length. 

Pierre  Leblanc  turned  to  him,  still  smiling. 

"And  why  not?"  he  queried. 

"War  with  Germany?"  he  continued.  "Zut!  It 
is  absurd!  We  are  at  peace.  The  whole  world  is 
at  peace.  Crops  are  good.  There  is  money  for  all. 
Then  why  should  there  be  war?" 

Petit  jean  shook  his  head. 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  said.    "But  it  is  the  talk." 

Pierre  Leblanc  eyed  him  with  kindly  scorn. 

"Pouf !"  he  said.  "You  are  young,  mon  vieux. 
When  you  shall  be  as  old  as  I,  you  will  not  permit 
to  affect  you  the  idle  fancies  of  the  scatter-brained." 

But  Petitjean  again  shook  his  head. 

"It  is  the  talk,"  he  reiterated. 


102  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 


Pierre  Leblanc  shifted,  impatiently. 

"Then  the  talk,"  he  asserted,  "is  absurd.  We 
know  that  perhaps  Germany  wants  more  territory 
for  her  people,  more  seaports  for  her  commerce. 
But  to  go  to  war  for  these  things?  Mais  nonf  We 
are  a  civilised  people.  The  Germans  are  a  civilised 
people.  We  have  been  at  peace  these  many  years. 
And  in  those  years,  we  have  both  learned  much. 
Men  fly  no  longer,  like  animals,  at  one  another's 
throats.  Differences  nowadays  are  left  to  arbitra 
tion.  Have  we  not  treaties?  Have  we  not  The 
Hague?  Have  we  not  honour,  and  decency,  and 
mercy,  and  brotherly  love?  We  are  no  longer 
beasts.  Civilisation  has  taught  us  to  be  humane." 

He  waved  his  hand. 

"Listen  no  more  to  idle  talk.  Go  home  and 
sleep  in  peace.  War  is  gone  from  the  world  for 
ever!" 

A  FORTNIGHT  later  Petit  jean  again  stood  at  the 
gate.     It  was  sunset;  the  sky  was  of  red  and  gold 
and  the  colours  of  opals. 
""The  talk  of  war,"  said  Petitjean,  "goes  on." 

Pierre  Leblanc  this  time  did  not  laugh.  He  did 
not  believe.  But  he  did  not  laugh. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "the  talk  goes  on.  But  what  of 
that?  Talk  does  not  make  facts.  There  can  be  no 


"SOMEWHERE  IN  "          103 

war.  Weapons  are  too  terrible  nowadays.  No 
man,  no  nation,  could  stand  against  them.  And  the 
good  God  would  not  permit  a  thing  so  terrible  to 
come  upon  His  earth.  Fear  not.  The  talk  will 
cease.  .  .  ." 

BUT  the  talk  did  not  cease. 

And  again,  at  the  cottage  gate,  Petitjean  stopped, 
on  his  way  home. 

"The  talk  of  war  is  more,"  he  said. 

Pierre  Leblanc  nodded. 

"I  have  heard,"  he  replied.  "The  talk  is  of 
nothing  else." 

"And  you  now  believe?"  queried  Petitjean. 

Leblanc  shook  his  head. 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  answered.  "I  am  confused. 
A  month  ago  I  would  not  have  believed.  But  where 

there  is  so  much  talk And  in  the  papers.  .  .  . 

The  Germans  are  a  strange  people ;  that  is,  the  Prus 
sians.  We  do  not  understand  them;  nor  do  they 
understand  us.  And  it  may  be  that  they  think " 

His  wife,  baby  in  arms,  came  into  the  doorway. 

Petitjean  spoke  slowly,  as  one  dreading  to  voice 
his  thought. 

"You  think,"  he  queried,  "that  if  war  comes,  it 
will  come  here — to  us?" 

Pierre  Leblanc's  expression  changed.    It  changed 


104  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

from  seriousness  to  amusement.  And  once  again 
he  laughed.  He  looked  up  at  his  wife,  still  laugh 
ing.  But  she  did  not  laugh.  Women  are  different 
from  men.  Leblanc  turned  back  to  Petit  jean. 

"Come  here?"  he  cried.  "War  come  here ?"  He 
chuckled.  "It  is  a  very  werewolf  of  a  war  of  which 
you  dream!  How,"  he  asked,  "could  war  come 
here?  Have  we  not  a  great  and  gallant  army? 
Have  we  not  forts  and  guns?  Have  we  not  treat 
ies  that  protect  us  from  invasion  ?  How,  then,  can 
war  come  to  us?" 

Pet  it  jean  thought. 

"Perhaps,"  he  suggested  at  length,  "through  Bel 
gium." 

Again  Pierre  Leblanc  laughed  in  kindly  scorn. 

"That,"  he  asserted,  "is  precisely  what  the  Ger 
mans  have  agreed  that  they  would  not  do.  And 
even  should  they  try,  the  Belgians  are  no  fools; 
neither  are  they  cowards.  They  have  an  army 
amply  big  for  defence.  And  their  forts  are  mag- 
nifique!  Not  all  the  men  in  Germany  could  carry 
them!" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Should  the  Germans  try  to  violate  Belgium,"  he 
asserted,  "the  war  would  be  over  before  it  had  be 
gun.  Men  cannot  stand  against  the  weapons  of  to 
day.  Cannon  which  kill  at  twenty-five  kilometres! 


"SOMEWHERE  IN  "         105 

Aeroplanes  which  drop  bombs  of  fire!  Machine- 
guns  which  mow  men  down  as  you  cut  grain  with 
a  sickle !  Should  war  come  to-day,  one  battle  would 
be  all.  Thousands  and  tens  of  thousand  of  soldiers 
killed.  The  world  sick  with  horror.  .  .  .  And  then 
a  settlement.  .  .  .  We  are  generations  from  slaugh 
ter.  We  could  not  stand  it. 

"Fear  not,"  he  said.  "War  may  come.  But  we 
and  those  we  love  are  safe." 

So  thought  Pierre  Leblanc.  So  thought  count 
less  thousands  that  were  as  he.  But  he,  and  they, 
were  wrong.  And  while  God's  head  was  turned 
away,  the  devil  let  loose  upon  the  earth  a  Monster 
that  no  man  dreamed  could  be! 

PIERRE  LEBLANC  stood  at  the  door  of  his  cottage. 
His  little  girl  stood  beside  him,  her  little  hand  in  his. 
Beside  him  stood  his  wife,  their  man-child  at  her 
breast.  Side  by  side  they  stood,  watching  the  sol 
diers  as  they  marched  by. 

Pierre  Leblanc  had  seen  many  pictures  of  soldiers. 
He  had  listened  to  the  gallant  tales  of  the  ancients — 
the  veterans  of  other  wars.  Of  troops  going  to 
war  there  had  been  always  in  his  mind  a  clear  and 
vivid  picture:  Flags  flying;  drums  rolling;  music; 
gallant  officers,  with  flashing  swords  and  shining 
helmets  on  great  steeds  that  curvetted  and  caracoled ; 


106  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

men  that  marched  brilliantly  in  brilliant  uniforms. 
That  had  been  the  picture  in  his  mind.  How  vastly 
different  the  picture  that  his  eyes  now  saw ! 

A  crawling,  grey  dust-snake  was  writhing  its  sul 
len  way  across  the  fair  land.  Its  head  had  long  since 
passed  the  first  house  of  their  village.  Its  tail  was 
somewhere  over  the  shimmering  blue  hills  beyond 
the  next.  In  the  distance,  it  was  that,  nothing  more 
— just  a  crawling,  grey  snake. 

But  nearer  it  broke  up  into  its  component  entities. 
Men  that  walked  wearily,  carrying  heavy  guns  and 
heavier  packs,  while  the  sweat  cut  tiny  rivulets 
in  their  dust-plastered  faces;  dust-covered  guns 
drawn  by  dust-covered  horses  ridden  by  dust-cov 
ered  riders;  supply  wagons,  dust-covered  like  all 
else  .  .  .  more  men  .  .  .  more  wagons  .  .  .  more  guns 
.  .  .  men,  and  guns,  and  wagons;  wagons,  and 
guns,  and  men,  emerging  vaguely  from  the  great 
grey  snake,  only  to  merge  back  again  into  its  writh 
ing  coils. 

And  there  stood  watching,  in  the  summer  sun, 
Pierre  Leblanc  and  his  wife,  their  daughter,  and  the 
man-child  that  le  bon  Dieu  had  been  so  good  as  to 
send  them ;  watched  while  the  bees  hummed  and  a 
bird,  hidden  in  the  green  leaves  above  them,  sang, 
and  sang,  and  sang.  .  .  . 

Pierre  Leblanc  heard  his  name  called.  He  looked, 


"SOMEWHERE  IN  "         107 

trying  to  pierce  the  dust  with  his  gaze.  He  heard 
his  name  again.  An  arm  waved.  A  figure,  dust- 
grey,  like  all  the  rest,  stood  out  from  among  the 
countless  others. 

It  was  Petitjean;  Petitjean,  tall,  young,  so  good 
to  look  upon.  Petitjean  who,  when  came  the  call  of 
France  to  her  sons,  laid  down  his  tools  and  quietly 
went  forth  to  offer  his  life  for  hers.  He  was  no 
man  of  phrases.  He  had  said  only,  "I  am  going  to 
the  war."  And  he  had  gone.  And  now  he  waved 
to  Pierre  Leblanc,  who  was  older,  and  whom  his 
country  did  not  yet  need,  waved  from  the  grey  snake 
of  men,  sons  of  France,  like  him,  going  to  war  so 
quietly,  their  souls  too  full  for  words,  their  hearts 
too  great  for  bombast. 

And  now  Petitjean  was  gone.  The  dust  again 
swallowed  him,  even  as  it  had  spewed  him  forth.  .  .  . 
And  on  the  grey  snake  writhed — men,  and  guns,  and 
wagons ;  wagons,  and  guns,  and  men. 

And  Pierre  Leblanc  and  his  wife  stood  watching, 
in  the  summer  sun,  while  the  bees  hummed  and 
above  them,  hidden  amid  the  green  of  the  leaves,  a 
bird  sang,  and  sang,  and  sang. 

SUDDENLY  it  came  upon  them.  So  suddenly  that 
it  was  hard,  very  hard,  to  credit.  Man  is  but  man, 


108  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

And  that  which  through  many  years  he  has  learned 
to  believe  lies  close  against  his  skull. 

Belgium  had  been  invaded. 

But  how  could  that  be?  Her  fortresses  were  im 
pregnable.  Of  steel  and  cement,  and  the  brains  of 
the  best  engineers  of  the  world !  And  was  there  not 
the  treaty — the  treaty  which  Germany  had  signed 
against  this  very  thing? 

That  treaty  only  a  scrap  of  paper?  It  could  not 
be  possible.  Treaties  were  made,  like  promises,  of 
the  honour  and  honesty  of  men  and  nations.  And  if 
honour  and  honesty  were  gone  from  the  world, 
what  would  be  left?  Any  man  could  repudiate  his 
word  or  his  debts.  There  could  be  no  business,  no 
society,  no  religion,  no  morals,  no  ethics.  The  rami 
fications  were  inconceivable.  It  split  civilisation 
wide  open  at  its  base!  No!  No!  It  could  not  be! 

Wild  rumours  came  to  the  village.  Pierre  Le- 
blanc,  puzzled,  amazed,  helpless,  listened.  It  was 
too  much  for  any  man  to  grasp.  He  shook  his 
head,  weakly.  He  listened  while  others  talked,  in 
the  little  shop  that  Gervase,  the  apothecary,  had 
kept  these  many  years.  While  others  talked,  he  lis 
tened.  Gervase  listened,  too.  From  time  to  time 
Gervase  smiled  a  little,  quietly,  when  he  thought  no 
one  was  looking.  Pierre  Leblanc  saw.  This,  too, 
he  thought  was  strange.  Why  should  Gervase 


"SOMEWHERE  IN  "          109 

smile? — Gervase,  whose  friend  he  had  been  these 
many  years. 

Wrhile  others  talked,  volubly,  excitedly,  he  left,  to 
go  home  to  his  cottage,  to  his  little  daughter,  to  his 
wife  and  their  man-child.  At  home  there  were  only 
bees,  the  singing  of  the  brook,  the  lowing  of  fat 
kine,  and  the  bird  that  sang  hidden  in  the  leaves. 
There  he  could  sit  quietly  and  think,  that  he  might 
try  to  gain  even  a  tiny  glint  of  the  great  change  that 
had  come  over  all  the  world — a  change  that  left  him 
helpless,  weak,  dreadful. 

He  was  crossing  the  little  bridge,  just  above  the 
mill,  when  he  heard  a  rumble,  as  of  distant  thunder. 
He  stopped,  listening.  He  looked  up  at  the  sky. 
It  was  a  bowl  of  blue,  no  cloud  upon  its  surface. 
Pierre  Leblanc  scratched  his  head.  Thunder,  with 
no  cloud  in  sight ;  thunder  in  the  azure  brilliance  of 
a  summer's  day  ?  The  world  was  mad  indeed ! 

Again  the  rumble.  Again  Pierre  Leblanc 
scratched  his  head,  in  deep  perplexity.  Again  he 
looked  in  the  direction  whence  came  the  incongru 
ous  sound. 

Hello!  What  was  that?  Some  one  was  coming, 
there  over  the  hill  beyond  the  village — a  man  on  a 
bicycle,  a  tiny  dot  against  the  bald  whiteness  of  the 
road.  He  travelled  fast.  Another  raised  the  brow 
of  the  hill.  Another,  and  another ;  then  a  group. 


110  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

Again  Pierre  Leblanc  scratched  his  head.  Who 
could  they  be,  these  men?  Not  tourists.  There 
were  no  tourists  in  France  now.  Couriers,  perhaps, 
from  the  front!  That  was  it!  Couriers  from  the 
front,  with  news  of  victory!  A  great  victory,  a 
glorious  victory,  for  France! 

He  turned.  He  would  go  back  to  the  village,  to 
welcome  them!  But  even  as  he  turned,  he  saw 
coming  over  the  distant  hill-brow  other  men — men 
on  horses,  this  time  I  On  horses  that  galloped  fran 
tically.  .  .  .  He  stopped.  .  .  .  That  was  puzzling. 
Surely,  one  man,  or  two,  could  bear  news  of  vic 
tory.  Why,  then,  all  these?  .  .  .  And  then  it  came 
to  him,  why  couriers  at  all  ?  Was  there  not  the  tele 
graph,  the  telephone,  even  the  wireless?  It  struck 
him  sickeningly  that  couriers  belonged  to  other  days 
— distant  days — the  days  of  the  pictures  that  he  had 
seen  and  imagined — the  days  of  Napoleon — not  to 
times  like  these. 

He  tried  to  think,  but  his  brain  refused  to  give; 
his  imagination  to  conceive.  It  did  not  matter. 
They  would  be  here  soon,  these  hurrying  figures  of 
which  now  there  were  so  many. 

An  aeroplane,  like  some  great  bird,  came  out  of 
the  nothingness  of  the  sky,  high  above  him,  to  sail 
swiftly  across  the  blue  toward  Paris. 

The  men  on  the  cycles  were  lost  now,  hidden  by 


£  £ 


SOMEWHERE   IN   "  111 


the  houses  of  the  village.  But  ever  the  road  over  the 
hill  gave  birth  to  more — horses,  now,  and  wagons, 
and  men  on  foot.  And,  during  all,  the  dull  rumble 
of  the  thunder  that  he  could  not  understand — the 
thunder  that  came  of  a  sunlit  summer  day. 

Suddenly,  from  the  village,  came  the  wheel 
men.  .  .  .  Soldiers  they  were;  their  uniforms  dirty 
and  torn.  Bending  over  low  handlebars,  they  ped 
alled  fiercely. 

Nearer  and  nearer  they  came  .  .  .  nearer — near 
er Pierre  Leblanc  watched  them  come.  He 

walked  almost  to  the  middle  of  the  road,  waiting  to 
hail  them. 

On  they  came.  He  could  see  their  faces — drawn 
faces,  and  dirty,  with  bloodshot  eyes  and  lips  pulled 
back  from  teeth  in  agony  of  effort. 

As  he  spoke,  they  flew  past.  They  did  not  answer. 
It  was  as  though  they  did  not  see  him.  There  was 
something  in  their  eyes  that  Pierre  Leblanc  had 
never  seen. 

Startled,  almost  stunned,  he  watched  them  wheel 
away  over  the  sunlit  road.  Then  something  within 
him  broke;  something  nameless;  something  awful! 
Turning,  he  ran  with  all  the  strength  that  was  in  him 
to  his  cottage,  to  his  little  girl,  to  his  good  wife  and 
the  man-child  that  God  had  given  them.  .  .  . 


112  SCARS  AND   STRIPES 

FROM  the  windows  of  their  cottage  they  watched. 

Pierre  Leblanc  watched  with  eyes  dull  and  nar 
rowed,  like  one  whose  vision  asks  his  brain  to  be 
lieve  too  much.  ...  It  is  often  so;  when  one  must 
suddenly  face  that  which  one  has  always  believed 
never  could  be.  The  good  wife's  eyes  were  round 
in  horror.  She  knew.  Women  are  different  from 
men.  The  little  girl  whimpered,  frightenedly.  Hell 
had  broken  upon  them ;  but  she  was  only  just  from 
heaven.  So  she  could  not  understand.  The  man- 
child  nursed  his  mother's  breast.  God's  warm 
breath  was  still  upon  his  little  body.  So  what  knew 
he  of  fear? 

THE  fair  white  road  before  the  cottage  was  a  ruck 
of  frightened,  cursing  men ;  of  plunging,  screaming 
horses ;  of  ploughing  motors,  like  Juggernauts,  tear 
ing  their  shrieking  way  through  the  tossed  and  toss 
ing  masses  of  men  and  animals.  .  .  .  Cries  and  mut- 
terings,  the  crashing  of  metal  against  metal.  .  .  . 
Discarded  guns  and  equipment  to  catch  the  fright 
ened  feet  of  those  who  fled.  ...  A  hopeless,  heav 
ing,  pitiful  mass  of  God's  creatures  turning  from 
a  horror  so  great  as  to  kill  reason  and  slaughter  san 
ity — a  mass  that  began  where  human  vision  began 
and  ended  where  human  vision  ended.  .  .  . 

And  Pierre  Leblanc  watched,  dull  eyes  unbeliev- 


"SOMEWHERE  IN  "         113 

ing,  like  a  well  man  thrust  suddenly  into  the  middle 
of  hell.  .  .  .  And  his  good  wife,  who  was  woman, 
watched  with  the  horror  that  she  knew.  .  .  .  Their 
daughter  whimpered.  .  .  .  The  man-child,  that  was 
fresh  from  God,  nursed  its  mother's  breast. 

THE  sun  lay  in  the  west. 

The  ruck  was  thinning  now.  .The  able-bodied 
had  gone.  Only  the  wounded  were  left,  and  the 
weak,  hobbling,  helping  one  another,  fleeing  blindly 
from  the  million  horrors  behind  them.  A  man,  his 
leg  hanging,  foot  dangling  sickeningly,  using  two 
rifles  for  crutches.  .  .  .  Another,  twisting  a  bloody 
rag  around  a  bloody,  empty  sleeve  .  .  .  others  .  .  . 
more,  and  more,  and  more.  .  .  . 

And  Pierre  Leblanc  at  length  believed. 

Opening  the  cottage  door,  he  stepped  forth  into 
the  dying  day.  His  little  girl  followed,  clinging 
frightenedly  to  his  smock.  The  good  wife  laid  the 
baby  in  his  crib.  She  took  her  place  at  the  side  of 
her  man. 

They  went  to  the  one  with  the  dangling  leg.  He 
cursed  them,  strangely,  and  hobbled  on. 

They  found  another  unconscious.  Him  they  half- 
carried,  half -dragged,  into  the  cottage.  They  gave 
him  water.  With  deft  fingers,  the  good  wife  bound 


114  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

up  his  wound.    He  was  too  near  death  to  speak  his 
gratitude.     He  could  but  look  it. 

And  then  they  went  forth  into  the  blood-smeared 
roadway  to  look  for  more.  .  .  .  They  found  them. 
They  found  them  in  plenty.  Some  they  took  into 
their  cottage  and  cared  for.  Others  they  left,  cov 
ering  their  faces.  .  .  . 

IT  did  not  occur  to  them  to  flee.  They  were  God's 
creatures,  caring  for  others  of  His  creatures.  That 
was  all.  And  in  all  the  world  no  soldier  ever  makes 
war  except  on  soldiers.  Those  who  were  not  sol 
diers  were  ever  safe  in  the  sanctuary  of  their  help 
lessness.  Unarmed  men,  women,  and  little  children, 
these  War  spared.  Such  has  been  the  law  of  civi 
lised  warfare  these  half  thousand  of  years.  These 
things  Pierre  Leblanc  and  his  good  wife  knew. 
Hence,  fearless  for  themselves,  they  stayed  to  do 
their  pitiful  little  to  aid  the  tortured  and  the  suffer 
ing. 

Busy  with  their  work,  they  did  not  look  up  until 
there  came  to  their  ears  a  sharp,  biting  rattle  ...  a 
machine-gun!  .  .  .  Across  the  dun  meadow,  where 
long  shadows  lay,  men  were  running;  men  with 
childish  red  trousers  and  little  red  caps  that  made 
them  fair  marks  against  anything  but  a  field  of 
blood.  .  .  .  Three  fell,  as  they  ran,  almost  to- 


"SOMEWHERE  IN  "         115 

__ ,_._  _.          .        % 

gether  .  .  .  another  .  .  .  two  more.  .  .  .  The  rest 
fell  face  down  beside  the  little  brook  that  sang  ever 
to  itself,  there  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  .  .  .  There 
were  willows  there.  They  hid  among  the  roots, 
their  rifles  spitting  flame. 

He  could  scarcely  see  the  men  that  pursued. 
Their  uniforms  blended  strangely  with  the  ground. 
And  ever  came  the  ripping  fire  of  the  machine-gun. 

And  Pierre  Leblanc,  now  very  wise  of  the  world, 
and  of  the  shameless,  nameless  things  that  mankind 
can  do  to  man,  knew  that  these  men  with  the  red 
trousers  and  caps  were  what  was  left  of  a  detach 
ment  of  the  rear-guard — the  few  that  in  all  retreats 
must  die  that  the  many  may  live. 

The  tat-tat-tat  of  the  machine-gun  kept  on.  He 
could  see  the  figures  by  the  willows  start,  half  erect, 
only  to  drop  again.  A  gun  fell  from  the  hands  that 
held  it ;  the  body  rolled  half  upon  its  side.  A  man 
lay  with  head  raised.  The  head  fell  forward  into 
the  little  stream,  the  water  above  the  ears.  .  .  . 
That  was  all. 

Little  figures  so  hard  to  see  against  the  fallow 
field  rose.  They  ran  forward,  carrying  with  them 
a  gun  mounted  on  a  tripod.  Three  fell.  The  rest 
threw  themselves  flat.  The  ripping  of  the  machine- 
gun  came  louder,  its  flashes  plainly  visible. 


116  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

Suddenly  the  men  by  the  willows  leaped  to  their 
feet.  Four  fell,  face  down.  The  rest  ran.  They 
ran  toward  the  cottage  of  Pierre  Leblanc. 

Perhaps  twenty  started.  Five  reached  the  door, 
to  which  Pierre  Leblanc  had  already  retreated.  And 
the  first  of  these  was  Petitjean ;  Petitjean,  so  young, 
so  strong;  Petitjean  that  had  been  so  good  to  look 
upon.  Had  been,  because  that  was  no  more.  Part 
of  his  nose  was  gone,  torn  from  his  face  by  a  bullet. 
A  bloody  rag  bound  his  head,  from  lips  to  eyes. 
Blood  flowed  over  his  mouth  as  he  tried  to  speak. 
Yet  he  was  neither  excited  nor  afraid. 

And  Pierre  Leblanc  took  them  into  his  cottage, 
and  closed  the  door. 

They  would  be  prisoners,  of  course.  Petitjean  a 
prisoner!  Petitjean,  his  neighbour,  to  be  taken 
away,  somewhere  in  Germany,  to  be  held  until  the 
war  should  end,  his  farm  to  run  to  weeds,  his  stock 
confiscated  by  the  enemy! 

Petitjean  mumbled  thickly  his  words. 

"Dieu!"  he  cried  thickly.  "To  send  men  armed 
only  with  guns  against  giant  artillery !  It  was  that ! 
Not  fear.  Not  cowardice.  France  knows  neither ! 
But  to  be  slaughtered  like  sheep  by  the  butcher  with 
no  way  to  defend  oneself !  They  are  not  to  blame, 
the  men  that  fled.  Nor  is  France  to  blame !  It  was 
that  in  her  own  innocence  and  loving  kindness  she 


"SOMEWHERE  IN  5:         117 

did  not  dream  of  war.  Hence  she  lay  all  unpre 
pared,  and  her  sons  must  die!  To  be  unprepared 
for  war,  has  ever  meant,  will  ever  mean,  but  one 
thing.  And  that  one  thing  is  death!  He  who  is 
prepared  kills.  He  who  is  unprepared  is  killed. 
Cest  tout!" 

The  men  with  the  dull  grey  uniforms  were  at  the 
door  now.  Defence  was  at  an  .end.  With  car 
tridges  gone,  the  five  men  within  the  cottage  knew 
that  they  had  done  all  that  lay  in  their  power  to 
do.  ...  And  there  were  the  many  wounded  that 
Pierre  Leblanc  and  his  good  wife  had  taken  inside 
their  home.  Pierre  Leblanc  looked  at  them.  They 
looked  at  him,  and  at  each  other. 

Petit  jean  it  was  who  spoke. 

"Cest  fini,"  he  said  quietly.  "It  is  the  end."  The 
other  four  nodded. 

And  so  Pierre  Leblanc  opened  the  door. 

ONE  bullet  would  have  been  enough.  It  entered 
his  smock  fair  over  the  heart.  .  .  .  They  pierce 
well,  these  modern  bullets,  and  that  which  killed 
Pierre  Leblanc  struck  the  head  from  the  plaster 
Christ  above  the  mantel.  There  were  four  more 
bullets.  But  since  Pierre  Leblanc  lay  dead,  what 
matters  where  they  struck? 

The  good  wife,  baby  at  breast,  started  a  moment, 


118  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

dully.  She  said  no  word.  She  made  no  sound.  She 
reeled  a  little.  Then,  suddenly,  swiftly,  surely,  she 
flung  herself  full  upon  the  bayonets  before  her. 
And  on  one  of  these,  she  gasped  out  her  life.  And 
from  this  shining  steel,  dulled  of  her  blood,  whit 
ened  of  her  mother  milk,  God  took  her.  .  .  .  He 
took  her  man-child  with  her. 

The  little  girl,  dark-haired,  dark-eyed,  flew 
frightenedly  to  Petitjean;  Petitjean,  the  big,  the 
strong;  Petitjean  that  told  her  stories  of  the 
fairies.  .  .  .  One  bullet  served  them  both. 

More  shots.  Perhaps  a  dozen.  For  there  were 
still  the  wounded,  you  know. 

There  came  the  sound  of  the  striking  of  a  match. 
A  little  flame  crept  up  the  white  curtains  that  the 
good  wife  had  fashioned  as  she  sang,  there  in  the 
long,  happy  days  that  fell  after  God  had  whispered 
of  the  child  that  He  was  to  send  to  her — to  her  and 
Pierre  Leblanc. 

And  Gervase,  who  kept  the  little  apothecary,  and 
who  had  been  the  friend  of  Pierre  Leblanc  these 
many  years,  looked  up  at  the  officer  beside  him. 

ffC'est  bien!"  he  murmured  softly.  He  saw  the 
officer  looking  at  him;  quickly  he  corrected  himself. 
What  he  said  was,  "Das  ist  gut."  But  then,  he  had 
been  long  in  France.  One  could  not  blame  him  that 
he  forgot. 


"SOMEWHERE  IN  "          119 

THE  wife  of  Petitjean,  hiding  with  other  dry- 
eyed  women  and  helpless  children,  whimpering  of 
hunger,  from  the  distant  copse  in  which  she  lay  saw 
the  flames  of  the  cottage  of  Pierre  Leblanc,  a  finger 
of  fire  pointing  toward  the  sky.  And,  whispering 
to  God,  she  crossed  herself.  For  she  thought  it  was 
her  own. 

II 

IT  was  springtime  in  America. 

Before  the  door  of  his  cottage,  sat  Peter  White. 
The  soft  scent  of  the  awakening  earth  came  to  him ; 
the  humming  of  bees.  Before  him,  the  fair  coun 
tryside,  vari-coloured  squares,  lush-green,  dun,  dull 
brown,  stretched  far  away  to  meet  the  deep  blue  of 
the  sky. 

A  little  child,  a  girl  of  four,  came  to  his  side, 
thrusting  a  sun-browned  hand  within  his  own.  .  .  . 
Peter  White  looked  down  at  her.  His  smile  met  her 
own. 

A  voice  hailed  him  from  the  gate.  It  was  Little- 
john,  whose  cottage  lay  next  door;  Littlejohn, 
young  and  tall  and  good  to  look  upon,  in  flannel 
shirt  and  corduroys. 

"I  have  come  from  the  village,"  he  said. 

"Yes?"  queried  Peter  White,  stroking  the  tan 
gled  hair  of  the  child  at  his  knee. 


120  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

"There's  queer  talk  going  on,"  said  Little  John, 
"there  in  the  village." 

"Talk?"  asked  Peter  White.     "Talk  of  what?" 
"The  talk,"  Littlejohn  said,  "is  of  war." 
Peter  White  looked  first  surprised ;  then  incredu 
lous;  then  amused.     Now  he  lifted  his  head  and 
laughed  aloud. 

"War!"  he  exclaimed.  "Bah!  We're  in  no  dan 
ger  of  war!  And  even  if  war  should  come,  how 
could  it  hurt  us,  here  in  America?  Ridiculous! 

Why,  we " 

So  spoke  Peter  White.  For  was  not  he  wise; 
wise  even  as  you  and  I;  wise  even  as  had  been 
Pierre  Leblanc? 


CHAPTER  FIVE 
MARY  AND  MARIE 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

MARY  AND  MARIE 

THIS  is  not  much  of  a  story.  It  doesn't  start 
anywhere  in  particular;  nor  does  it  end  any 
where  in  particular.  It  has  no  love  interest ;  it  will 
not  amuse,  and  it  has  an  unhappy  ending.  So,  if 
you  are  like  most  of  us  here  in  America  (which 
means  that  you  don't  believe  in  doing  anything 
you  don't  want  to  do)  perhaps  you  had  better  not 

read  it.     However 

The  name  of  the  Virgin  was  Mary;  and  the 
French  for  Mary  is  Marie.  Time,  place  and  asso 
ciation  change  all  things  and  in  all  ways.  The  dif 
ference  between  What  Might  Have  Been  and  What 
Is  is  ofttimes  only  so  much  as  the  gentle  sunlight 
,of  a  whim,  or  the  darkling  shadow  of  a  mood. 
Moreover,  the  sunlight  and  the  shadow  may  not  be 
even  of  our  own,  but  reflected  upon  ourselves  from 
that  which  falls  upon  the  lives  of  others.  Whereby 
it  were  well  to  remember  that  it  is  not  for  us  too 
much  to  praise  Marie,  too  much  to  blame  Mary.  For 
life  is  as  deep  as  it  is  devious,  and  as  devious  as  it 

is  deep.    For  had  it  been  Mary  that  had  been  Marie, 

123 


124  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

and  Marie  that  had  been  Mary,  who  of  us  shall 
say  where  would  rise  the  praise,  where  fall  the 
blame?  For,  as  you  shall  see 

Marie  lived  in  Belgium — in  northern  Belgium 
amid  the  gentle  hills  which,  lace-coiffed  in  shining 
filaments  of  river  and  of  brook,  sat  ever  like  good 
housewives  amid  the  ordered  products  of  their 
kindly  lives — sat  ever  thus  until,  one  day  of  summer, 
soft  and  still  and  smiling,  came  hordes  of  strange, 
unhuman  men  to  rouse  them  to  awful,  biting  terror, 
to  sear  their  hearts  with  tears,  and  drown  their 
souls  in  blood. 

There  lived  Marie. 

Mary  lived  in  America — in  the  United  States,  a 
country  broad  and  raw  and  young,  a  country  that, 
even  as  Belgium  went  to  war  to  save  her  gentle  soul 
from  dishonour,  and  stayed  at  war  to  save  her  clean, 
frail  body  from  red  and  ravishing  hands,  sat  idly 
by,  selfish,  self-satisfied,  coddling  her  full  young 
figure  of  the  liberties  and  riches  left  her  by  the 
toil  and  moil  and  struggle  of  generations  of 
strong,  self-sacrificing  forebears — squandering  vac 
uously  in  self-pander  all  the  riches  of  honour  and 
courage  and  dignity  that  they  had  left  her.  Fatly 
and  fatuously  she  stifled  all  in  her  that  was  fine,  all 
that  was  noble,  under  the  plea  of  the  selfishly  in 
dolent  that  that  which  didn't  happen  to  her  was  none 


MARY   AND    MARIE  125 

of  her  business.  ...  So  might  Christ  have  thought. 
Only  He  didn't.  .  .  . 

And  there  lived  Mary. 

So  that  now,  if  you  have  come  with  me  thus  far, 
we  may  go  further. 

Marie  lived  in  a  tiny  auberge  kept  by  her  people. 
It  was  called  the  Hotel  des  Couronnes.  But  it 
wasn't  like  that  a  bit.  In  France,  little  things  run  to 
great  names — even  as  in  America  great  names  run 
to  little  things.  Perhaps  it  is  Nature's  plan  of  bal 
ance.  Who  knows? 

The  Hotel  des  Couronnes  means  the  hotel  of  the 
funeral  wreaths.  And  in  the  name  lay  perhaps, 
perhaps  not,  the  spirit  of  prophecy. 

It  was  not  a  large  hotel;  on  the  contrary,  it  was 
a  very  small  hotel.  It  had  four  guest-rooms  with 
very  high  and  very  old  and  very  soft  beds.  It  had 
a  tiny  cafe  with  marble-topped  tables.  It  had  great 
stables  and  a  courtyard  floored  of  cobbles,  wherein 
all  day  long  plump  pigeons  fluttered  and  strutted, 
strutted  and  fluttered.  And  when  one  walked  across 
this  courtyard,  one's  sabots  made  upon  the  cobbles 
a  great  and  mighty  sound.  .  .  .  Such  was  the  God- 
given  peace  that  lay  like  His  cupped  hands  about 
the  Hotel  des  Couronnes.  .  .  . 

For  the  rest,  it  was  a  quaint  old  place,  long  and 
low  and  rambling.  To  its  red-tiled  roofs  and  grey 


126  SCARS  AND   STRIPES 

walls  fashioned  by  hands  long  since  gone  back  to 
the  earth-mother  that  gave  them  of  her  life  and  in 
the  end  gathered  them  once  again  unto  her  breast, 
clung,  lizzard-like,  the  sprays  of  dull-green  ivy. 

One  grey  wall — the  one  caressed  by  the  warm 
rays  of  the  setting  sun — was  quite  close  to  a  river. 

It  was  a  little  river,  this  of  which  I  tell  you.  A 
tiny  river,  but  friendly  and  sociable  and  unbelievably 
talkative!  Where  it  came  from,  nobody  seemed 
to  know.  Those  asked  would  shrug  their  shoulders 
uninterestedly,  and  say,  "Oh,  ga vien  du  loin"  which 
means  somewhere  a  long  way  off.  And,  apparently, 
it  went  to  the  same  place — at  any  rate  such  was 
the  similar  answer  to  similar  queries.  .  .  . 

As  near  as  one  could  see,  standing  on  the  hill 
where  wound  the  white  road  with  its  tall  sentinels 
of  green  poplars,  the  river  came  from  up  the  valley 
just  beyond  the  fertile  fields  of  the  farm  of  Papa 
Michard.  Then,  after  hiding  from  one  playfully 
for  a  space,  it  came  in  sight  again  just  above  the 
tiny  bridge  where  crossed  the  motors  on  their  way 
to  the  capital.  Thence,  after  leaping  lightly  from 
ripple  to  ripple,  it  would  come  to  a  singing  halt  in 
the  little  pool  near  the  old  grey  wall.  And  there, 
resting  gently  beneath  the  soft  shadows  of  the  wil 
lows,  it  would  linger  to  chat  with  one,  while  the 
willows  nodded  softly  as  they  listened. 


MARY   AND    MARIE  127 

And  there,  while  the  river  lay  resting  in  its  little 
pool,  Marie  would  come  to  chat  with  it,  while  the 
friendly  willows  gathered  all  about  her  to  listen. 
They  whispered  sometimes,  too;  but  willows  have 
not  much  to  say,  since  they  spend  all  their  lives  in 
one  place.  But  rivers,  now,  they  travel  vastly !  .  .  . 
It  must  be  wonderful  to  be  a  river  and  to  see  of 
all  the  world  so  much! 

But  since  one  may  not  be  a  river,  then  the  next 
best  thing  is  to  have  one  for  a  friend.  Thus  it 
was  with  Marie.  They  knew  each  other  well,  the 
river  and  Marie ;  knew  and  loved.  In  all  its  moods 
she  knew  it:  in  the  springtime,  when  it  hurried 
past  on  its  never-ending  journey,  too  busy  save  for 
a  passing  friendly  word.  .  .  .  And  in  the  winter 
when  the  ice  lay  over  it  like  a  prison  window ;  though 
even  then  one  could  peer  through  and  see  it  smiling 
at  one  from  beneath.  .  .  . 

But  in  the  soft  spring  and  the  gentle  summer  she 
would  lie  by  its  side,  listening  (  for,  you  must  know, 
it  was  the  river  that  did  most  of  the  talking ;  Marie 
liked  best  to  listen)  flat  upon  the  ground,  young 
limbs  full  sprawled,  while  it  told  her  of  its  travels 
— of  the  broad  sea  of  which  Marie  knew  only  in 
pictures — of  huge  ships  of  steel  that  carried  in  their 
black  wombs  more  men  than  lay  in  all  the  country 
side — of  great  cities  where  people  dwelt  like  bees 


128  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

in  a  hive — where  sought  the  skies  chimneys  more 
numerous  than  the  stalks  of  corn  before  the  har 
vest.  .  .  . 

It  told  her  of  the  men  that  built  the  little  auberge 
— the  red  roofs  and  the  grey,  stained  walls — the 
men  long  since  gone  to  their  fathers.  It  told  her  of 
those  before  them — men  in  silk  and  cloth-of-gold, 
with  hooded  hawks  upon  their  wrists.  .  .  .  Even 
of  the  men  before  these  it  told  her — great  men  in 
shining  armour  that  rode  huge,  thundering  charg 
ers  covered  with  steel  and  silk  and  the  white  foam 
of  their  champing  jaws.  .  .  .  You  see,  it  was  a  very 
old  river,  this  river  that  Marie  knew,  very  old  and 
very  wise,  as  old  as  it  was  gentle,  as  kind  as  it  was 
wise.  .  .  . 

And  by  its  side  Marie,  full  lips  parted,  dark  eyes 
wide  in  wonder,  would  lie  and  listen  until,  of  a  sud 
den,  soft  shadows  came  stalking  past  upon  the 
grey,  stained  wall — came  the  sound  of  kine  splash 
ing  in  the  lush  grass  below,  and  the  voice  of  her 
mother  calling  her  to  the  white-floored  kitchen  with 
its  pots  and  pans  of  flashing  copper.  .  .  .  Marie 
would  sigh  softly,  and  go,  sorry  and  yet  infinitely 
glad;  sorry  that  she  must  leave,  even  for  a  time, 
the  friendly  old  river  that  knew  so  much,  and  glad 
because  she  knew  it  at  all.  .  .  .  Ma  foil  It  is  good 
to  know  a  river  like  that!  Such  a  travelled  river! 


MARY   AND    MARIE  129 

Such  a  very  old  river !    A  river  that  could  tell  you 
of  a  thousand  kilometres  and  half  a  thousand  years ! 

Such  then  was  Marie.  .  .  .  You  know  her  now  a 
little,  don't  you?  Well,  then,  let  us  leave  her  for  a 
— Pardon?  .  .  .  May  she  not  go  back  to  the  little 
pool  and  listen  to  the  river  while  we  are  away  ?  .  .  . 
Why,  surely!  .  .  .  What?  .  .  .  Yes.  I  see.  .  .  . 
Oh,  but  she  is  only  a  little  girl.  .  .  .  Nineteen.  But 
not  as  girls  you  know  are  nineteen.  She  has  lived 
with  the  birds,  the  flowers,  the  trees,  and,  yes,  to  be 
sure,  the  river.  She  has  lived  with  them  and  loved 
them.  Sunshine  has  been  father  to  her,  Nature  her 
mother.  Years  neither  bless  nor  curse  her.  Hence 
I  repeat,  she  is  but  a  little  girl.  So  what  of  it  if, 
as  she  lies  sprawled  there  by  the  little  river,  her 
skirt  does  happen  to  be  a  few  inches  above  her  shoe- 
top?  I  shan't  tell  her.  Nor  shall  I  permit  you.  It 
would  only  make  her  ashamed.  And  it  is  not  well 
to  make  ashamed  those  to  whom  shame  is  not  due. 
Remember  that.  And  let  us  go. 

i 

As  I  have  told  you,  Mary  lived  in  America.  She 
lived  in  a  large  city.  It  was  not  a  pretty  city.  It 
was  just  large.  Consequently  America  was  very 
proud  of  it,  and  boasted  extensively  of  the  height  of 
its  buildings  and  the  number  of  miles  of  its  subways 
and  how  many  millionaires  it  had. 


130  SCARS  AND   STRIPES 

In  this  large  city  Mary  lived  in  a  large  house. 
There  were  many  servants  in  Mary's  house.  I  can't 
tell  you  how  many  because,  in  Mary's  house,  nobody 
went  into  the  kitchen  except  the  servants.  Mary's 
mother  used  to  have  her  breakfast  in  bed  in  her 
twin  room,  and  Mary's  father  always  left  for  the 
office  before  she  was  up — left  wearing  a  gardenia 
and  a  worried  look.  He  was  junior  partner  in  a 
brokerage  concern  and  had  almost  as  many  enemies 
as  Germany.  But  he  had  as  many  friends  as  Ger 
many,  and  of  much  the  same  kind.  For  he  was 
highly  efficient;  and  when  it  came  to  business  you 
had  to  get  up  mighty  early  to  put  anything  over 
on  him,  you  bet ! 

Mary  didn't  care  much  for  Nature.  She  was  will 
ing  to  look  at  it  from  a  limousine  or  a  yacht,  if 
she  didn't  have  to  look  too  long.  And  then  she  was 
even  more  willing  to  pass  it  up  for  something  in 
teresting.  She  preferred,  with  other  Marys,  to  stay 
up  late  at  night  dancing,  eating  and  flirting  with 
well-groomed,  slender  and  wealthy  young  men  the 
insides  of  whose  heads  Nature  profoundly  abhorred. 
But  they  were  perfectly  corking  dancers.  Which, 
after  all,  seems  to  be  the  main  thing  nowadays. 

At  the  mature  age  of  five  Mary  became  cognisant 
of  true  facts  in  the  case  of  Santa  Claus,  and  was 
surprised  that  she  had  been  fooled  so  long.  At 


MARY  AND   MARIE  131 

seven  she  gave  up  dolls  as  things  being  all  right  for 

children,    perhaps,   but At   twelve   she   was 

strolling  with  an  academic  interest  through  the  pri 
mary  mysteries  of  sex;  and  at  fourteen  she  knew 
the  meaning  of  the  word  mistress  as  governed  by 
modern  usage,  and  was  tolerably  familiar  with  the 
duties  and  social  status  of  the  physical  exemplifica 
tions  thereof. 

For  the  rest,  she  motored  a  bit  and  she  yachted 
a  bit,  and  she  played  bridge  fairly  well,  though 
she  could  never  remember  what  had  been  bid,  and 
she  went  to  the  opera  in  clothes  that  would  have 
been  barred  if  worn  on  the  stage,  and  she  went  to 
the  theatre  always  making  it  a  point  to  get  in  during 
the  middle  of  the  second  act.  She  had  read  a  few 
books  that  she  shouldn't  and  almost  none  that  she 
should,  and  she  thought  that  Schopenhauer  kept  a 
road-house  on  Long  Island.  And  she  knew  a  lot 
of  perfectly  charming  people.  I  forgot  to  mention 
that  she  had  been  to  boarding-school  and  to  a 
fashionable  finishing-school  where  she  learned  a  lot 
of  things  that  didn't  do  her  any  harm,  and  a  lot 
more  that  did.  I  also  forgot  to  say  that  one  night 
when  she  was  forced  to  discharge  a  frightfully 
neglectful  maid,  she  ran  the  ribbons  in  her  lingerie 
herself  and  thought  she  had  done  a  big  day's  work. 
I  further  forgot  to  tell  you  that  she  is  now  just 


132  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

nineteen  and,  as  ere  this  you  undoubtedly  must 
have  observed,  very,  very  beautiful.  .  .  . 

And  now  you  know  Mary;  at  least,  I  hope  you 
do.  ...  So  let  us  leave  her  and — Pardon?  .  .  . 
That  dance  at  the  Splendide  ?  Why,  surely  she  may 
go.  Why  not?  All  the  other  Marys  are  going, 
aren't  they  ?  She  never  goes  to  bed  till  two  or  three 
or  four,  anyway.  .  .  .  What?  .  .  .  Why,  yes,  cer 
tainly.  ...  I  see.  .  .  .  It's  really  very  beautifully 
shaped,  isn't  it?  ...  Tell  her!  .  .  .  Urn!  ...  I 
beg  your  pardon  for  smiling,  but  really — don't  you 
suppose  she  knows  it  just  as  well  as  you  do  ?  .  .  . 
Yes,  of  course  I  know  that  she  ought  to  be  ashamed. 
But  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  people  who  are 
so  frightfully  poor  that  they  have  nothing  but 
money  ? 

IT  all  came  very  suddenly.  One  day  God  smiled 
down  through  His  sunshine  upon  the  gentle  hills. 
The  next  and  His  face  was  turned  away,  His  ear 
grown  deaf.  .  .  .  But  how  the  devil  chuckled ! 

Who  till  then  had  realised  all  the  reeking  horrors 
that  mankind  can  do  to  man  ?  Not  you,  nor  I.  And 
not  the  people  of  the  gentle  hills.  .  .  .  But  they 
learned.  God!  How  they  learned! 

Across  the  bridge  over  the  little  river  they  came, 
strange  men  in  loose,  dust-coloured  uniforms  and 


MARY  AND   MARIE  133 

queer  helmets.  .  .  .  Before  the  auberge  stood  the 
old  grey  horse  of  Papa  Michard,  gentle  of  kind 
ness  to  whose  old  grey  flanks  the  touch  of  whip 
was  yet  unknown.  As  the  soldiers  passed  he 
turned  his  head  a  little.  A  little  it  was;  but  it  was 
enough.  Of  so  small  a  thing  as  this  may  men  be 
killed  and  women  ravished. 

For  as  the  horse  turned  his  head,  it  struck  one 
of  these  invading  men.  He  turned.  Muttering  a 
guttural  oath,  he  kicked  the  horse  savagely  in  the 
belly.  Papa  Michard  raised  his  hand  in  protest. 
...  A  bright  point  of  steel  showed  through  the 
back  of  his  coat,  just  between  the  shoulders.  There 
was  blood  upon  it.  ...  Marie,  standing  just  behind, 
saw.  But  she  did  not  understand  at  first.  Even 
when  Papa  Michard  fell  sideways  to  the  ground 
she  did  not  understand.  For  she  had  lived  her 
nineteen  years  among  gentle  people,  and  she  had 
been  taught  to  believe  that  God  would  protect  the 
good.  And  kindly  old  Papa  Michard  was  loved 
through  all  the  countryside.  .  .  . 

Papa  Michard's  son  came  through  the  door  of  the 
auberge.  He  saw.  He  understood.  He  leaped  for 
ward.  There  was  a  sound  as  of  some  one  snapping 
a  whip.  He  fell  across  the  body  of  his  father.  .  .  . 

And  so  it  was  that  the  commanding  officer  de 
cided  that  the  town  should  be  taught  a  lesson.  I 


134  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

shall  not  tell  you  what  this  lesson  was.  But  it  is  a 
lesson  that  the  town  learned,  and  well;  a  lesson 
that  it  will  never  forget  as  long  as  its  people  and 
their  children  and  their  children's  children  shall 
live  within  their  land.  ...  It  was  a  lesson  that  it 
were  better  to  learn  than  to  teach;  that  is,  if  you 
believe  in  Christ.  .  .  . 

A  part  of  this  lesson  Marie  saw.  Then  some 
thing  within  her  broke.  She  turned  and  fled. 

Through  the  kitchen  she  passed,  through  the  gar 
den,  blindly,  eyes  staring  wide,  soul  seared  to  the 
core.  She  knew  not  where  she  fled;  it  was  to  get 
away  from  the  ghastly  Horror  that  had  sunk  its 
talons  in  her  brain.  But  something  guided  her. 
It  took  her  to  the  little  pool  by  the  stained  grey 
wall.  And  there  she  flung  herself  upon  the  bank, 
hidden  by  the  willows  that  had  not  seen,  as  had  she, 
the  tumbled  bodies  of  murdered  men  through  the 
windows  of  whose  dead  eyes  gazed  nothing;  peace 
ful  homes  ablaze  around  the  corpses  of  their  own 
ers;  men  and  women  and  children  mangled  and 
tortured  and  slaughtered — the  whole  hell-pot  of  sav 
agery,  of  cruelty  and  of  lust.  .  .  . 

Gripped  of  horror,  gone  of  reason,  so  she  lay  for 
a  time,  wide  of  eye,  lips  parted,  her  face  the  colour 
of  the  whitewashed  wall  of  the  stable  of  Papa 
Michard  through  the  roof  of  which  long,  licking 


MARY   AND    MARIE  135 

tongues  of  flame  were  now  beginning  to  eat  their 
way.  She  heard  the  screams  of  women,  the  groans 
of  men,  the  frightened  whimpering  of  children. 
.  .  .  The  little  river  called  to  her.  But  she  did  not 
hear.  Only  she  lay  there  while  her  brain  burned 
and  her  soul  cried  out  to  God. 

As  Mary's  maid  was  slipping  on  Mary's  sheer 
silk  stocking,  the  door  opened  and  her  father  en 
tered.  Mary  took  her  eyes  from  the  surface  of  a 
gold-chased  mirror  long  enough  to  favour  him  with 
a  look.  He  appeared  exhilarated. 

From  his  inside  pocket  he  took  an  envelope. 
This  he  threw  carelessly  on  the  table. 

"For  me?"  asked  Mary. 

He  nodded. 

"What  is  it?"  she  queried. 

"A  war  bride,"  he  answered.  He  smiled,  with 
infinite  satisfaction. 

"I  made  a  little  killing  to-day,"  he  went  on. 
"That,"  and  he  indicated  the  envelope  on  the  table, 
"is  your  bit.  I  thought  maybe  you  might  like  to 
give  a  party  or  something  on  your  birthday.  How 
about  it?" 

Mary  conceded  that  it  was  an  excellent  sugges 
tion.  She  thanked  him.  And  inasmuch  as  the  en- 


136  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

velope  held  stocks  equivalent  in  value  to  five  thou 
sand   dollars,   she  thanked  him  again. 

"But  what  did  you  say  it  was  ?"  she  queried.  "A 
war  what?'* 

*  "War  bride,"  he  explained.  "One  of  the  stocks 
that  those  darned  fools  over  in  Europe  are  boosting 
by  killing  one  another.  This  is  United  Cartridge, 
preferred.  I've  got  a  line  on  another  that's  going 
to  be  a  peach.  And  if  only  the  war  keeps  on  a  few 
months  longer,  we'll  have  that  place  at  Newport 
that  your  mother's  had  her  eye  on  so  long." 

THE  whirling  horror  that  tore  her  soul  grew  less. 
Reason,  unseated  by  the  drenching  terror  of  blood 
and  torture,  crept  weakly,  pitifully  to  her  brain. 
Marie  opened  drawn,  fear-bitten  eyes.  Naked  walls, 
red,  glowing.  .  .  .  Corpses.  .  .  . 

Vague  thoughts,  aching,  awful,  came  to  her  but 
to  lose  themselves  ere  they  could  be  grasped.  It  was 
like  trying  to  find  bodies  in  a  sea  of  blood. 

Her  father.  .  .  .  She  remembered.  .  .  .Him 
they  had  killed.  .  .  . 

Again  the  sea  of  blood. 

Her  mother.  .  .  .  Again  she  remembered.  .  .  . 
That  scream.  ...  It  was  her  mother's  voice.  .  .  . 

And  once  again  her  reason,  gripping  with  agon- 


MARY   AND    MARIE  137 

ised  fingers  of  effort,  slid  back  into  the  blood-red 
sea  of  vagueness. 

And  so  for  a  thousand  thousand  years  she  lay 
while  all  the  ghouls  of  hell  pounded  at  her  brain 
and  tore  her  soul.  The  river  called  softly,  the  old 
river,  the  friendly  river.  . .  .  But  for  all  the  noise,  she 
could  not  hear.  .  .  .  The  willows  whispered,  too.  .  .  . 
But  the  voices  of  willows  are  so  very  soft,  so  very 
gentle.  And  perhaps  they,  too,  were  soul-stricken, 
for  willows  do  not  travel,  and  see  so  little.  .  .  . 

Came  Reason  again,  thrusting  its  battered  head 
above  the  blood  sea.  ...  It  spoke  to  her.  .  .  . 
Again,  vaguely,  she  heard.  .  .  . 

It  was  trying  to  tell  her  something.  She  clenched 
her  hands;  she  shook  the  pounding  ghouls  from 
brain  and  soul.  .  .  .  She  tried  to  listen.  .  .  . 

There  were  other  villages,  Reason  was  saying, 
other  villages  like  her  own.  There  were  other  vil 
lages,  gentle  villages,  lying  beneath  God's  cupped 
hands,  as  hers  had  lain.  Other  villages  there  were, 
and  in  these  were  other  people,  gentle  people,  people 
such  as  had  been  those  that  now  lay  dead  and  dying 
amid  the  red  pyres  of  their  homes.  Gentle  people 
like  these  there,  were,  who  did  not  yet  realise  all  the 
reeking  horrors  that  mankind  can  do  to  man.  And 
if  the  invaders  had  not  gone  too  fast,  there  might 
yet  be  time  for  some  one  to  find  these  gentle  people 


138  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

and  tell  them  of  the  reeking  horrors  so  that,  at  least, 
they  might  save  their  lives  in  flight. 

This  it  was  that  Reason  told  her  through  all  the 
tumult  of  the  tearing,  pounding  ghouls.  And  this 
it  was  that  she  heard.  And,  hearing,  she  tried  to 
rise  to  her  feet.  .  .  .  Her  arms  were  weak,  like  a 
baby's.  .  .  .  Her  legs  trembled  beneath  her.  .  .  . 
She  looked  down  at  them,  strangely.  .  .  . 

And  as  she  looked,  wide  of  eye,  drawn  of  lip, 
Reason  again  spoke.  It  told  her  that  that  of  which 
she  thought  might  well  mean  death — and  worse.  It 
told  her  that  where  she  was,  she  was  safe.  Hid 
den,  she  was,  and  secure.  No  one  would  come  to 
the  little  pool  where  rested  the  river,  where  leaned 
the  willows.  There  was  no  reason  why  any  one 
should.  So  that,  as  long  as  she  stayed  there,  she 
was  safe.  It  told  her  that,  their  blood  lust  sated,  the 
invaders  might  pass  on;  that  then  she  might  find  a 
place  of  permanent  safety.  Surely,  there  must  be 
some  place  that  was  safe;  so  that,  by  staying  where 
she  was  for  perhaps  a  day  and  a  night,  she  might 
at  least  save  life,  and  that  which  is  more  precious 
than  life.  .  .  . 

So  Reason  told  her.  .  .  .  She  heard,  and 
plainly.  .  .  . 

She  sank  to  her  trembling  knees.  .  .  .  And  now 
another  voice  was  calling.  ...  It  was  that  of  the 


MARY  AND   MARIE  139 

old  river.  It  called  softly,  and  unbelievably  gently. 
...  She  listened.  .  .  .  Bye  and  bye,  after  a  very 
long  while,  she  rose  again  to  her  feet.  .  .  .  Her 
knees  were  stronger.  .  .  .  She  stood  as  stood  Joan 
of  Arc  who,  too,  heard  voices.  .  .  .  And  Marie  lis 
tened  now  not  alone  to  Reason,  not  alone  to  the 
river,  but,  as  well,  to  the  voices  of  all  the  people 
of  the  gentle  hills,  the  vast  land-spread  murmur  of 
a  happy  people  lying  all  unsuspecting  beneath  the 
peace  of  God's  cupped  hands — the  peace  the  devil 
was  so  soon  to  ruin,  to  ravish  and  to  wreck.  All 
these  she  heard.  And  above  all,  the  voice  of  God, 
Himself.  .  .  . 

IT  is  not  always  that  those  who  try  succeed.  It 
is  not  always  that  those  who  succeed  try.  But  to  try, 
and  not  succeed  is,  to  the  one  who  tries,  success; 
for  that  circumstances  are  against,  or  beyond,  one 
in  no  way  lessens  the  praise  that  one  deserves.  So 
it  is  that  to  try  and  not  to  succeed  is  so  infinitely 
better  than  to  succeed  without  trying. 

Marie  was  innocent.  But  she  was  not  ignorant. 
When  she  left  the  shadows  of  the  willows  beside  the 
little  pool  where  the  old  river  lay  at  rest,  she  knew 
full  well  what  was  in  store  for  her  if  caught.  She 
knew  that  women  are  born  to  be  mothers.  She 
knew  that  unbridled  men  are  born  to  be  beasts.  . 


140  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

These  things  she  knew.  But  the  voices  of  Reason 
and  of  the  river,  the  land-spread  murmur  of  the  peo 
ple  of  the  gentle  hills,  and  the  voice  of  God  Him 
self  were  in  her  ears.  .  .  .  And  so  she  went. 

I  wish  that  the  God  who  spoke  would  let  me  tell 
you  that  she  went  in  safety.  I  wish  He  would.  .  .  . 
But  it  was  not  so  to  be.  He  called  in  vain,  as  did 
the  voices  of  Reason  and  the  river,  as  did  the  land- 
spread  murmur  of  the  people  of  the  gentle  hills.  .  .  . 

MORNING  came. 

Bruised  and  torn  and  naked,  fouled  of  body  by 
all  the  filth  of  earth,  she  crawled  weakly  on  hands 
and  knees  back  to  the  little  pool  where  lay  the  river 
beneath  the  willows.  .  .  .  Crooning  softly,  as  to  a 
frightened  child,  the  old  river  took  her  to  his  breast, 
the  gentle  old  river  that  was  so  kindly  and  so  wise. 
And  in  his  kindness  and  his  wisdom  came  to  her 
torn,  racked  body  and  tortured  brain,  at  length, 
the  God-sent  peace  that  passeth  all  understanding. 
.  .  .  The  willows  shivered  a  little,  in  the  morning 
mist.  .  .  .  Yet  willows,  you  know,  understand  but 
little.  .  .  . 

For,  you  see,  her  soul  was  so  very  clean. 

THAT  night  it  was  that  Mary  gave  her  party.  It 
was  a  most  brilliantly  successful  affair.  There  were 


MARY    AND    MARIE  141 

eighty  covers;  and,  following  the  dinner,  the  guests 
danced  until  four  in  the  morning.  It  was  broad 
daylight  when  Mary  went  to  bed,  very  happy,  very 
beautiful,  and — very  drunk. 

All  of  which  is,  of  course,  quite  as  it  should 
be.          .  Or  is  it? 


CHAPTER  SIX 


"UNCLE  SHAM" 


CHAPTER  SIX 


"UNCLE  SHAM" 


MY  friend  was  wroth. 
"I  may  be  a  coward,"  he  said.  "We  may 
be  a  nation  of  cowards.  But  if  we're  not,  I'm  get 
ting  sick  and  tired  of  being  held  up  to  the  rest  of 
the  world  as  a  nation  of  cowards  when,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  we're  only  a  nation  of  fools." 

He  gazed  out  into  the  gathering  dusk.  It  was 
spring,  warm  and  pulsing. 

"Fools?"  I  repeated. 

"Fools,"  he  said. 

He  turned. 

"If  you  pick  certain  men  to  represent  you;  if 
there  comes  a  crisis;  if  you  find  that  these  men  that 
you  have  placed  in  high  position  to  protect  and 
further  your  interests  are  weak  and  incompetent; 
if  you  find  that  because  they  themselves  are  without 
brain  or  bowels,  they  are  leading  other  nations  to 
believe  that  you  yourself  are  equally  as  supine  and 
pitiable;  and  if  these  other  nations,  finding  that 
the  men  who  represent  you  won't  resent  injury; 
that  they  won't  protect  their  own  rights,  to  say  noth 
ing  of  yours;  that  they  are  without  courage,  with- 

145 


146  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

out  vision,  without  strength,  without  the  instinct 
of  self-preservation  that  even  a  clam  has,  naturally 
begin  to  take  advantage  of  your  abjectness  to  blow 
up  your  factories,  murder  your  fellow-men,  women 
and  babies — if,  as  I  say,  all  these  things  happen, 
what  are  you  if  you  allow  these  men  to  remain  in 
power  without  even  raising  your  voice  in  protest?" 

I  had  no  answer. 

"Half  the  nations  of  the  world  hate  us,"  he 
went  on.  "The  other  half  despise  us.  And  when 
a  little,  carbon-copy  country  like  Mexico  can  make 
us  a  laughing-stock,  can  you  blame  'em?" 

He  tossed  his  cigar  into  the  grate. 

"And  this/'  he  muttered,  "is  the  nation  that  went 
to  war  over  a  tax  on  tea!" 

There  fell  a  silence.  .  .  .  These  are  bitter,  bitter 
days.  .  .  . 

"I'd  be  ashamed  that  I  am  an  American,"  he  went 
on,  at  length,  slowly,  "if  it  weren't  for  one  thing." 

"And  that?"  I  queried. 

"That  I  know  that  the  American  spirit  is  not 
dead,  but  only  dormant.  They  won't  bear  it  for 
ever,  these  men  whose  ancestors  stood  at  Concord, 
and  Lexington,  at  Gettysburg  and  the  Alamo.  .  .  . 

"God!"  he  exclaimed.  "It  would  be  laughable 
if  only  it  weren't  so  ghastly.  Take  Mexico  first. 
The  Madero  assassination.  Chaos.  American  men 


UNCLE   SHAM  147 


robbed ;  American  women  ravished ;  American  chil 
dren  murdered.  A  good  strong  man  could  have 
jumped  into  the  situation  and  saved  all  the  horrible, 
bloody  mess  that  followed.  The  vulture-souled 
bands  that  formed  to  prey  on  the  torn  corpse  of 
their  country  could  have  been  subdued  even  before 
they  had  gathered.  The  thing  could  have  been 
strangled  at  birth.  But  what  did  we  do?  Watch 
fully  waited !  Armed  them  with  guns  and  ammuni 
tion,  let  them  arm  themselves,  coyote-brained,  coy 
ote-hearted,  for  slaughter  piled  on  slaughter,  rape 
piled  on  rape,  pillage  and  torture  and  horrors  un- 
namable ! 

"Then  Huerta! 

"  'Salute  the  flag !'  we  say. 

"  The  devil  I  will !'  says  Huerta,  or  the  Mexican 
equivalent  thereof. 

"  'All  right,  then,  don't  salute  it/  we  say.  'We 
will  be  obeyed.' 

"And  back  home  we  come,  carrying  our  dead. 

"Then  Carranza. 

"  We  will  never  recognise  that  man !'  say  we. 

'  'I  should  worry,'  says  Carranza,  in  the  original 
tongue,  knowing  that  Washington  is  a  long  way  off 
and  doesn't  mean  it  anyway.  'You  stop  writing 
sassy  letters  to  me,  or  I'll  break  your  typewriter.' 

"Then  along  comes  Villa. 


148  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

"  'How  about  me  ?'  he  says  to  Washington. 

"  'You're  the  boy/  says  Washington.    'Hop  to  it.' 

"And  firmly  believing  in  peace,  we  load  him  up 
the  machine  guns,  and  knives,  and  bricks  in  stock 
ings,  and  chile  con  carne,  and  mescal,  and  all  the 
other  deadly  weapons  of  Mexico. 

"  'And  by  the  way/  we  say,  as  Villa  is  sharpening 
his  teeth  and  mobilising  his  wives  and  otherwise 
preparing  to  carry  the  banner  of  Christian  virtue 
into  the  dark  places,  'don't  worry  about  that  be- 
whiskered  old  trouble-maker,  Carranza.  We've 
eliminated  him  from  the  situation  entirely/ 

"'How'd  you  do  that?'  asks  Villa. 

"  'Why/  we  say,  'with  an  ink  eraser.'  And  as 
Villa  starts  off,  with  a  machine-gun  under  each  arm 
and  a  knife  between  his  teeth,  we  call  after  him. 
'And  remember/  we  say,  'that  God  is  always  on 
the  side  of  the  biggest  typewriter/ 

"Villa  begins.  Inasmuch  as  he  doesn't  own  an 
ink  eraser  and  couldn't  tell  a  typewriter  from  a 
cash-register,  he  is  reduced  to  the  more  primitive 
methods  of  of-  and  de- fence,  such  as  automatic  re 
volvers,  and  fingers,  which  he  employs  with  success 
for  a  time.  But  finally  Carranza,  who  has  been  say 
ing  nothing,  but  sawing  wood,  sneaks  up  behind  him 
and  gives  him  the  bum's  rush.  Villa  beats  him  to 
the  border  by  a  nose. 


UNCLE   SHAM  149 


•'  'Hey!'  he  yells.     Take  that  man  offa  me!' 

"We  look  up  from  our  typewriter  on  which  we 
are  composing  the  opening  chorus  of  the  Pan- 
American  Conference. 

"  'How  dare  you/  we  say  to  Carranza.  'Don't 
you  know  that  Villa  is  our  recognised  candidate  for 
president  of  Mexico?' 

"  'Not  by  me  he  ain't  recognised,'  says  Carranza. 
'I  don't  even  know  that  Mexican  Mormon  by  sight. 
Though  I  must  admit,'  he  goes  on,  'that  I've  seen 
pictures  of  him;  and  if  I  observe  a  small  man, 
dressed  principally  in  cartridges,  coming  down  the 
plaza,  I'm  surely  due  to  take  a  crack  at  him,  and/ 
he  adds,  Til  chew  the  bullet  a  little  first.  I'm  the 
only  little  Mexican  president  I  see  around  here/  he 
says,  'and  I  wear  spectacles/ 

"  'You  won't  let  Villa  be  president  ?'  we  say. 

"  'I  will  not/  says  Carranza. 

"  'All  right,  then/  we  answer,  'you  be  president. 
We  will  be  obeyed.' 

"And  Villa,  to  show  his  disapproval,  bulges  out 
into  the  suburbs  and  begins  to  burn  up  ranches  and 
murder  the  inhabitants,  taking  for  his  motto :  'Shoot 
Americans  First.' 

"Then  came  the  Lusitania.  .  .  .  When  you  think 
of  that!  .  .  .  God!  .  .  .  Human  beings,  like  you  or 
me,  on  a  peaceful  ship.  .  .  .  Two  o'clock  of  an 


150  SCARS  AND   STRIPES 

afternoon,  in  May.  .  .  .  And  then — Trampled 
bodies,  gasping  in  the  agonies  of  death.  .  .  .  Torn 
flesh — gaping  wounds.  .  .  .  Mothers  with  their 
babies.  .  .  .  The  screams  of  tortured  souls,  choked 
into  bubbling  gasps  beneath  the  waters.  .  .  .  Long 
wails,  quivering,  shivering.  .  .  .  Then  silence.  .  .  . 
Bodies.  ...  A  man's,  its  head  torn  from  its  neck, 
the  raw  edges  flopping  with  the  waves.  ...  A 
woman's,  with  dead  arms  still  holding  to  dead  breast 
the  dead  flesh  of  her  flesh,  the  dead  blood  of  her 
blood.  .  .  .  Tens  of  them.  .  .  .  Hundreds  of  them. 
.  .  .  The  sea  a  vast  charnel  house.  ...  A  million 
hells  in  one! 

"And  we  write  a  note.  .  .  .  We  ask  for  a  dis 
avowal  .  .  .  and  for  reparation.  .  .  .  Good  Lord 
in  heaven! 

"A  disavowal!  .  .  .  Why  didn't  Becker  think 
of  that? 

"And  reparation!  ...  A  thousand  dollars  for 
your  wife,  five  hundred  apiece  for  your  children, 
pro  rated.  .  .  .  Maybe  five  per  cent  off,  thirty  days 
net.  Steerage  wives  and  children  half  price. 

"What  is  the  market  value  of  a  human  life?, 
Mine  may  not  amount  to  much  to  the  rest  of  the 
world.  But  it's  all  there  is  to  me.  ...  A  price 
upon  my  wife — my  children?  ...  A  joke  for  the 
devil  in  hell  to  laugh  at! 


UNCLE   SHAM  151 

"The  Lusitania! 

"It  was  as  though  there  were  two  men  fighting  in 
the  public  street.  Your  wife  has  left  her  baby  on 
the  other  side.  She  crosses  to  get  it.  One  of  the 
men  kills  her,  deliberately,  in  cold,  cold  blood. 

"And  what  do  you  do  ?  Does  the  manhood  in  you 
come  screaming  to  the  surface  at  this  awful  thing? 
Not  at  all.  You  shake  your  finger  at  the  murderer. 
'Now  just  for  that/  you  say,  'I'll  hold  you  to  strict 
accountability/ 

"You  wait  until  the  murderer  takes  his  own  good 
time  to  answer  you. 

"  'She  had  no  business  to  be  there  in  the  first 
place,'  says  the  murderer.  'And  besides,  we  told 
her  we'd  kill  her  if  she  didn't  stay  at  home.  And 
furthermore/  he  says,  'she  was  armed/  he  says. 
'She  had  a  hat-pin/ 

"  'Ah-ha !'  says  you,  'that  makes  a  difference. 
We  will  investigate  the  matter.  I'll  write  you  a 
note  about  it,  which  I  shall  expect  you  to  answer 
by  June  I7th,  or  the  Fourth  of  July,  either  date 
being  appropriate,  and  if  I  find  that  she  didn't  have 
a  hat-pin,  but  was  holding  on  her  hat  with  an  elastic, 
or  wearing  a  tam-o'-shanter,  I  shall  at  once  expect 
a  complete  disavowal/ 

"And  you  go  home,  where  you're  expecting 
grandma  for  Christmas  dinner. 


152  SCARS   AND    STRIPES 

"Just  as  the  turkey  is  put  on  the  table,  the  door 
bell  rings.  You  go  to  the  door  to  admit  grandma. 
But  instead,  it's  the  postman.  He  hands  you  a 
letter.  It's  from  the  German  government. 

"  'Dear  sir/  it  reads,  'we  regret  to  state  that  last 
Thursday  we  were  forced  to  blow  up  your  grand 
mother.  She  was  on  a  ship.  She  had  no  business 
to  be  on  it  because  we  said  she  had  no  business  to 
be  on  it.  No  American  has  any  business  to  be  any 
where  except  where  we  say  he  has  any  business  to 
be.  Enclosed  please  find  money  order  for  $81.75. 
She  didn't  have  long  to  live,  anyway.  Kindly  sign 
and  return  enclosed  receipt  form  E.  If  you  want  a 
disavowal,  we  don't  mind.  Our  voice  is  strong,  and 
our  supply  of  stationery  practically  unlimited.  In 
fact,  in  spite  of  the  English  blockade,  we  have  so 
much  of  everything  that  we  scarcely  know  where 
to  put  it.  Hoping  that  this  will  prove  satisfactory, 
we  remain.  .  .  .' 

"All  of  which  is  calculated  to  make  a  chap  feel 
fine,  and  especially  be  of  benefit  to  grandma. 

"Well,  to  go  back,  we  start  an  investigation  of 
the  Lusitania. 

"Then  the  Germans  blow  up  the  Arabic. 

"We  stop  investigating  the  Lusitania  and  start 
investigating  the  Arabic. 

"The  Germans  blow  up  the  Hesperian. 


'UNCLE  SHAM  153 

"We  stop  investigating  the  Lusitania  and  Arabic 
and  start  investigating  the  Hesperian. 

"The  Germans  blow  up  the  Ancona. 

"We  stop  investigating  the  Lusitania,  the  Arabic 
and  the  Hesperian  and  start  investigating  the  An 
cona. 

"The  Germans  blow  up  the  Persia. 

"We  stop  investigating  the  Lusitania,  the  Arabic, 
the  Hesperian  and  the  4ncona  and  start  investigat 
ing  the  Persia. 

"It's  a  great  little  game.  It  sounds  like  The 
House  That  Jack  Built.  Twenty  can  play  as  well 
as  one.  And  there's  no  end  to  it  as  long  as  there's 
a  ship  left  to  blow  up. 

"In  the  meanwhile,  we're  busy  writing  notes. 
You  see,  we  have  to  write  one  every  time  they  blow 
up  a  ship.  Then  we  have  to  write  another  to  tell 
them  what  we  meant  by  the  first  one.  Then  we  have 
to  write  another  to  tell  them  that  we  meant  it.  And 
even  then,  they  don't  believe  us.  We  can  run  a 
typewriter  now  with  each  hand,  and  we're  learning 
to  operate  a  third  with  our  feet. 

"Take,  for  example,  our  latest  note,  in  protest  of 
the  torpedoing  of  the  Persia,  murdering  more  help 
less  souls,  and  killing  an  American  consul.  It's  a 
masterpiece. 


154  SCARS   AND    STRIPES 

"  'His  IMPERIAL  MAJESTY'S  IMPERIAL  CHANCEL 
LOR, 

"  'Imperial  Berlin, 

"  'Imperial  Germany. 
"  'IMPERIAL  DEAR  SIR  : 

"  'In  reply  to  your  note  re  the  Persia,  would  say 
that  the  American  government  will  not  be  satisfied 
with  anything  less  than  what  it  has  already  not  been 
satisfied  with  in  the  cases  of  the  Lusitania,  the 
Arabic,  the  Hesperian,  the  Ancona,  etc.  The  Amer 
ican  government  stands  for  something  higher  than 
the  sanctity  of  human  life.  I'll  explain  just  what 
that  is  later.  Nevertheless,  we  stand.  We've  been 
standing  quite  a  while,  it's  true;  but  we  shall  con 
tinue  to  stand  with  the  same  unswerving  fidelity  to 
the  higher  laws  of  humanity,  and  the  nobler  pre 
cepts  of  mankind.' 

"It's  a  good  note.  It  sounds  like  something.  It 
could  almost  be  set  to  music  and  sung  by  a  female 
quartette,  between  Bryan  and  the  trained  seals. 

"The  German  reply  goes  something  like  this : 

"  'LANSING    (and   that   is   certainly   what   they're 
doing  to  us), 

"  'Washington. 
'"DEAR  SIR: 

"  'Your  note  No.  5,706  (and  that's  fimny  enough 
as  it  is)  rec'd  and  contents  noted.  In  reply  would 
state  that  we  don't  know  anything  about  the  matter 
at  all.  Anyhow,  it  wasn't  we  that  did  it.  It  was 


"UNCLE  SHAM'  155 


probably  Austria.  If  it  wasn't  Austria,  it  might 
have  been  Bulgaria.  Or  Turkey  or  somebody.  Or 
spontaneous  combustion  or  something.  However, 
if  a  disavowal  will  make  you  stop  writing  letters  to 
us  and  begin  writing  them  to  England,  you're  wel 
come.  What  is  one  disavowal  between  friends? 
And  besides,  we  have  more  of  everything  now  than 
we  want,  including  notes.  The  report  that  the  Eng 
lish  have  made  it  impossible  for  us  to  use  our  sub 
marines  in  the  English  Channel  is  a  vile  and  mali 
cious  lie.  We  quit  because  we  just  got  tired.  Our 
Mediterranean  ones  aren't  tired  yet,  but  they  may 
be  soon.  When  they  are,  I'll  send  you  a  Mediter 
ranean  disavowal.  I  might  add  that  we  have  so 
many  supplies  in  Germany  that  we  haven't  room  to 
sit  down.  Kind  regards  to  William  Jennings  Bryan 
and  Hank  Ford.  Hoping  you  are  the  same  (yes, 
we  do!), 

"  <VoN  JAGOW.' 

"And  there  you  are.    Another  triumph  for  us ! 

"'But/  says  the  Pork  Barrel  Politician  from 
Medicine  Hat,  'we  keep  out  of  the  war.  You  gotter 
admit  that.' 

"I  do.  That's  true  enough.  We  do  keep  out  of 
the  war.  .  .  .  But  how  ?  By  allowing  other  nations 
to  massacre  our  citizens;  by  relinquishing  one  by 
one  our  inalienable  rights — noisily  and  pompously 
relinquishing,  but  relinquishing  none  the  less  surely 
and  certainly.  We  keep  out  of  a  fight  because  every 


156  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

time  our  adversary  advances,  we  back  up.  They've 
backed  us  out  of  Mexico ;  they've  backed  us  off  the 
ocean.  Already  in  fact,  if  not  in  word,  they've  taken 
away  the  inalienable  rights  of  Americans  to  travel 
on  the  high  seas.  If  they  wanted  to  take  away  their 
inalienable  rights  to  the  Atlantic  seaboard,  it  would 
be  the  same  thing.  We'd  retreat,  holding  our  type 
writer  in  one  hand  and  writing  notes  on  it  with  the 
other.  If  they  wanted  the  inalienable  Middle  West, 
it  would  again  be  the  same.  And  we'd  finally  wind 
up  in  an  inalienable  cyclone  cellar  in  Sacramento; 
and  if  they  wanted  that,  we'd  pack  up  our  type 
writer  and  start  swimming  across  the  Pacific,  the 
while  writing  a  note  about  the  inalienable  rights  of 
Americans  to  swim  in  the  Pacific  Ocean.  We'd  be 
safe  in  Japan.  Unpopular,  perhaps,  but  safe.  The 
Japs  aren't  too  proud  to  fight.  They're  too  proud 
not  to.  That's  what's  putting  silver  threads  among 
the  gold  in  the  whiskers  of  California." 

My  friend  gazed  into  the  fire. 

"Our  triumphs,"  he  went  on,  "remind  me  of  the 
man  that  got  into  a  fight  and  then  wrote  home  about 
it  to  his  folks. 

"  This  vile  person,'  he  wrote,  'insulted  me ; 
whereat  I  properly  resented  it.  He  struck  at  me. 
I  warded  off  the  blow  with  my  nose,  at  the  same 
time  placing  my  left  shin  against  his  right  foot. 


UNCLE   SHAM  157 

He  swung  at  me  again,  at  which  I  stopped  the  blow 
with  my  stomach,  and  at  the  same  time  catching 
his  other  fist  with  my  left  eye.  I  thereupon  lay 
down  upon  the  ground,  pulling  him  over  on  top  of 
me.  I  don't  remember  much  about  the  rest,  but  they 
tell  me  that  I  successfully  warded  off  his  repeated 
blows  with  various  parts  of  my  person.  I  am  writ 
ing  this  in  the  presence  of  two  doctors  and  a  trained 
nurse,  who  are  at  my  bedside  congratulating  me  on 
my  glorious  victory,  while  my  despicable  and  thor 
oughly  beaten  adversary  is  downstairs  in  the  bar, 
buying  alcoholic  refreshment  and  trying  to  explain 
his  humiliating  defeat  at  my  hands  to  a  party  of 
pitying  friends/ 

"The  trouble  with  America  is  that  it  has  tried  to 
substitute  oratory  for  action.  At  the  start  of  the 
war,  it  looked  as  though  America  were  something 
to  be  reckoned  with.  It  had  fought  and  won  some 
good,  hard  battles.  It  looked  like  an  immovable 
object.  And  Germany,  which  considered  itself  an 
irresistible  force,  lined  up  for  the  prospective  im 
pact.  But  when  the  irresistible  force  launched  itself, 
it  didn't  encounter  an  immovable  object.  It  met  in 
stead  a  weak  and  windy  old  cripple  full  of  phrase 
ology  and  fear. 

"At  which  the  other  nations  all  sat  down  and  had 
a  good  laugh. 


158  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

"  'Who's  the  old  guy  with  the  plug  hat  and  the 
striped  pants  sitting  over  there  counting  his  money  ?' 
asks  Austria. 

"  'Oh,  only  Uncle  Sham/  says  Germany. 

"  'Will  he  stand  up  for  his  rights  ?'  asks  Austria. 

"  'Stand  up  for  his  rights !'  says  Germany.  'Why, 
only  last  week  I  blew  up  a  bunch  of  his  folks  and  all 
he  did  was  holler.  Stand  up  for  his  rights!'  says 
Germany  scornfully.  'He's  got  about  as  much  spirit 
as  an  angleworm.  Alongside  of  him,  a  jellyfish 
looks  like  a  Numidian  lion.  He's  been  sitting  around 
on  the  edge  of  this  free-for-all  for  a  year  and  a  half 
now,  and  he  hasn't  had  sense  enough  to  buy  himself 
even  a  bean-shooter. 

"  'Hello/  says  Germany,  turning  around,  'here 
comes  a  ship  with  some  Americans  on  it.  Let's  blow 
it  up  so  he'll  write  me  another  note.  I  haven't  had 
any  fun  in  a  week.' 

"And  the  other  nations,  seeing  Germany  getting 
away  with  it,  say  to  themselves,  'Why  in  Sam  Hill 
should  we  pay  any  attention  to  the  McGuffey  Third 
Reader  stuff  that  this  old  bird  with  the  chin  piece 
is  pulling?  If  he  gets  in  the  way  slam  him  one. 
All  he'll  do  will  be  to  go  home  and  write  somebody 
a  letter  about  it/ 

"And  there's  the  poor  old  man  to-day.  Nobody 
likes  him.  Nobody  respects  him.  Even  a  little  na- 


UNCLE  SHAM'  159 


tion  like  Mexico  sits  in  the  comer  thumbing  its 
nose,  and  every  once  in  a  while  shying  a  brick  at 
him. 

"And  the  reason  is  that  he  showed  himself  up  as 
a  verbose  old  four-flusher  right  at  the  jump.  Watch 
ful  Waiting!  Is  that  anything  but  a  synonym  for 
Ignominious  Inaction?  Or  Contemptible  Cow 
ardice?  First  Mexico  bluffed  him  to  a  standstill. 
Huerta  is  dead — but  he  never  saluted  the  flag. 

"And  Germany,  seeing  our  mighty  policy  of 
Supine  Shamelessness,  blows  up  the  Lusitania.  .  .  . 
After  that,  why  worry?  All  the  old  incompetent 
will  do  is  to  holler  his  head  off  for  a  disavowal. 
And  if  the  German  treaty  with  Belgium  was  only  a 
scrap  of  paper,  what  in  blazes  is  a  disavowal  ? 

"No  man  is  afraid  of  anybody  he  can  lick.  And 
when  anybody  starts  in  to  make  it  a  point  to  take  a 
licking  every  day  before  breakfast;  when  a  man 
lets  even  ten-year-old  children  and  cripples  wallop 
him ;  when  he  hasn't  enough  sand  to  resent  even  the 
slaughter  of  his  children  in  cold  blood  and  the  rape 
of  his  women  in  colder,  how  can  he  expect  anything 
but  contempt,  scorn,  hatred  and  abuse? 

"These  people  that  say  that  if  Roosevelt  had  been 
president,  we  would  long  ago  have  been  plunged 
into  the  war  make  me  sick.  We  would  have  taken 
a  definite  and  determined  stand  at  the  outset,  and 


160  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

there  would  never  have  been  begun  this  miserable 
chain  of  circumstances  that  has  kept  us  twisting  and 
turning  and  shifting  and  sidestepping  like  an  old 
maid  in  a  mud  puddle.  .  .  .  It's  the  present  policy 
of  Be  Sure  You're  Right  and  Then  Back  Up  that's 
done  that.  .  .'  .  You  don't  start  anything  with  a 
strong  man.  You  don't  dare  to.  You  don't  tell 
Jack  Johnson  what  you  think  of  him.  You  know 
mighty  well  that  if  you  do,  you'll  review  the  pro 
ceedings  from  the  third  astral  plane.  But  your 
Uncle  Henry,  who  is  old  and  feeble,  you  can  maul 
around  as  you  choose.  If  Roosevelt  had  been 
president,  things  would  never  have  started  to  begin 
to  commence. 

"If  he  had  told  Huerta  to  salute  the  flag,  you 
bet  your  life  Huerta  would  have  saluted  it,  or  they'd 
have  gone  to  the  mat.  And  it  wouldn't  have  been 
the  old  Indian  that  was  on  his  feet,  dusting  off  his 
clothes,  at  the  finish. 

"And  the  Lusitania 

"One  bright,  May  morning,  that  benevolent  old 
humanitarian,  von  Tirpitz,  pirouettes  up  to  the  Im 
perial  Palace  where  the  Kaiser  is  sitting  on  the  front 
stoop,  sharpening  his  moustaches  and  waiting  for 
the  postman  to  bring  him  his  bread  ticket. 

"  'Good  morning,  Von,'  says  the  Kaiser. 

"  'Good  morning,  Kais,'  says  von  Tirpitz. 


UNCLE   SHAM  161 

"  'Well,  what's  on  your  mind  ?'  says  the  Kaiser. 

"  'I've  got  an  idea  that  it  would  be  a  good  scheme 
to  blow  up  the  Lusitania*  says  von  Tirpitz,  gently 
shooing  a  meadowlark  out  of  his  whiskers.  'It'll 
show  the  world  that  we  mean  business/ 

"  'I  don't  know  about  that,'  says  the  Kaiser. 
'There'll  be  a  lot  of  Americans  on  board.' 

"'What  difference  does  that  -make?'  says  von 
Tirpitz.  'Though  if  you  feel  like  that  about  it,  we 
can  tell  'em  to  keep  off/ 

"Tell  'em  to  keep  off!'  says  the  Kaiser.  Tell 
Americans  to  keep  off  the  high  seas?'  he  says. 
'You've  got  a  corpulent  chance.  I  guess  you  don't 
know  who's  president  of  the  United  States,  do  you?' 

"  'Why,  no,'  says  von  Tirpitz,  'a  lot  of  unim 
portant  details  escape  me  from  time  to  time.' 

"  Then  I'll  tell  you,'  says  the  Kaiser.  'It's  my 
old  pal  Theodore.  And,  believe  me,  he's  a  tough 
guy.  You  tell  Americans  to  keep  off  the  high  seas, 
and  he's  liable  to  hop  over  here  and  help  himself  to 
a  handful  of  your  whiskers,  to  say  nothing  of  put 
ting  both  front  feet  in  the  middle  of  my  dining- 
room.' 

"  'But  he's  got  nothing  to  hop  with,'  says  von 
Tirpitz.  'I  could  lick  his  whole  army  with  one  hand 
without  missing  a  meal.' 

"  'He's  got  a  navy,'  says  the  Kaiser.     'And  if 


162  SCARS   AND    STRIPES 

you  pull  anything  like  that,  he'll  just  send  a  convoy 
of  about  six  torpedo-boat  destroyers,  and  then 
where'll  we  be?' 

"  'But/  says  von  Tirpitz 

"  'Shut  up/  says  the  Kaiser.  'I  know  that  lad 
well.  And  besides,  look  what  he  did  to  Huerta. 
He's  a  bad  hombre.  You  try  that  thing  you  just 
suggested,  and  he'll  be  over  here  if  it's  only  with  his 
teeth.' 

"And  then,  as  von  Tirpitz  starts  to  continue,  he 
pushes  him  off  the  front  porch. 

"  'That  idea  is  cold,'  says  the  Kaiser.  'Goose- 
step  yourself  home  and  think  of  something  else. 
And  when  you  come  poking  around  here  again 
with  an  idea,  it  had  better  be  good.  I'm  taking  no 
chances  of  antagonising  a  nation  of  a  hundred  mil 
lion  people  with  a  rough  lad  like  Roosevelt  running 
it.  I've  got  trouble  enough  now.  If  you  feel  that 
you  must  have  exercise,'  he  adds,  'go  down  and 
slam  a  few  shells  into  that  bum  cathedral  at  Rheims. 
I've  been  wanting  to  get  rid  of  that  eyesore  for 
years.' 

"And  the  Lusitania  would  still  be  sailing  regu 
larly. 

"And  would  Roosevelt,  do  you  think,  standing  in 
the  middle  of  a  war-mad  world,  have  allowed  eight 
een  months  to  elapse,  as  the  present  administration 


UNCLE   SHAM  163 

has  done,  without  accomplishing  as  much  as  the 
executive  committee  of  the  Village  Improvement 
Association  could  do  in  two  meetings?  Would  it 
have  taken  him  a  year  and  a  half  to  decide  whether 
he  wanted  fourteen  battleships  with  fifteen-inch 
guns,  or  fifteen  battleships  with  fourteen-inch  guns? 
And  trying  to  settle  whether  he  wanted  a  national 
guard  or  a  constitutional  reserve?  Would  he  have 
called  in  all  the  naval  and  military  experts  for  their 
opinion  and  then  have  let  that  opinion  be  all  gummed 
up  by  a  Josephus  Daniels  ?  Josephus  Daniels !  Look 
at  him !  .  .  .  That's  long  enough.  You've  seen  it  all. 
"Would  Roosevelt  have  done  these  things  ?  Not 
he !  He'd  have  said,  'I  want  a  lot  of  good  soldiers 
and  I  want  'em  quick.  And  I  want  the  best  navy  I 
can  get,  and  a  flock  of  munitions.  And  if  they 
aren't  here  by  a  week  from  Thursday,  somebody'll 
be  busy  putting  ads.  in  the  Situations  Wanted 
column/  And  if  the  peanut-headed  pacifists  and 
politicians  who  habitually  have  come  to  regard  our 
Congressional  halls  as  a  combination  pork  barrel 
and  dormitory,  had  opposed  him,  he'd  have  gone 
over  their  heads  to  appeal  to  the  American  people. 
And  you  know  what  they'd  have  said,  don't  you? 
If  they  were  willing  to  stand  for  Wilson's  Policies, 
can't  you  see  how  God-awful  joyful  they  would  be 
to  stand  by  Roosevelt's  ? 


164  SCARS   AND    STRIPES 

"Many  people  in  this  country  seem  to  have  an 
idea  in  their,  so  to  speak,  intellects  that  all  these 
wondrous  blessings  of  peace,  prosperity,  health, 
wealth  and  happiness  that  we  have  been  enjoying 
for  the  past  half -hundred  years  came  to  them  from 
the  all-loving  beneficence  of  a  sort  of  apotheosised 
Santa  Claus,  who  wafted  down  the  national  chim 
ney,  bearing  them  on  his  back. 

"But  is  such  the  case?  Hardly!  The  blessings 
that  we  possess  to-day  were  won  for  us  by  our 
ancestors,  and  won  by  the  sweat  of  their  brows, 
the  toil  of -their  bodies  and  the  blood  of  their  hearts. 
That  there  are  nine  million,  or  whatever  it  is,  auto 
mobiles  owned  in  the  United  States  to-day  is  because 
our  ancestors  walked  nine  million  miles  behind  prai 
rie  schooners ;  cleared  the  land  with  an  axe  in  one 
hand  and  a  gun  in  the  other ;  were  massacred  by  the 
Indians  and  the  British;  died  of  heat  and  cold  and 
exposure;  but,  nevertheless,  with  chins  firm  and 
heads  up,  fought  on,  and  on,  and  on,  watering  with 
their  blood  and  fertilising  with  their  bones  the  rich 
and  running  land  that  is  ours  to-day.  They  defied 
tyranny.  And  laid  down  their  lives  for  the  liberty 
we  now  enjoy.  Enjoy,  did  I  say?  I  mean,  abuse! 

"And  we,  their  descendants,  wallowing  supinely 
in  the  wondrous  wealth  of  this  heritage  that  has 
come  down  to  us,  fat,  spoiled,  peevish  and  prosper- 


UNCLE   SHAM  165 

cms,  the  Rich  Man's  Sons  of  the  world,  confronted 
for  the  first  time  in  fifty  years  with  an  unpleasant 
duty,  shirk  and  whine  and  snivel  and  evade !  What 
we  need  is  a  darned  good  spanking. 

"Suppose  our  forebears  had  done  as  we  are  doing 
now;  Pocahontas,  and  George  Washington,  and 
Patrick  Henry,  and  Abraham  Lincoln,  and  U.  S. 
Grant  and  Nathan  Hale  ? 

"Can  you  picture  Pocahontas,  as  she  watched  her 
father  getting  ready  to  make  a  souffle  of  the  head  of 
Captain  John  Smith,  with  a  stone  hatchet,  saying, 
'Aw,  I  should  worry!  Let  father  bean  him  if  he 
wants  to.  He  had  no  business  to  be  here  in  the 
first  place/ 

"Can  you  see  George  Washington,  under  the  elm 
in  Cambridge,  refusing  to  take  command  of  the 
Continental  army  because  he  was  too  proud  to  fight  ? 

"And  Lincoln  demanding  of  the  South  that  they 
free  the  slaves,  and  the  South  refusing,  and  then 
Lincoln  saying,  'All  right,  then.  Don't  free  them. 
I'll  show  you  who's  boss  around  here.' 

"And  Patrick  Henry,  rising  in  the  assembly  at 
Williamstown,  Virginia,  and  making  his  famous 
speech,  'And  as  for  me,  give  me  liberty  or  I'll  write 
'em  a  letter  about  it.'  How  long  would  that  speech 
have  remained  in  the  school  readers? 

"And  U.  S.  Grant,  declaring  to  his  generals,  Til 


166  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

fight  it  out  on  this  line  if  I  use  up  all  my  stationery/ 

"And  Nathan  Hale,  emitting  the  valiant  words 
that  have  rung  down  the  corridors  of  time,  'My  only 
regret  is  that  I  have  but  one  typewriter  to  lay  down 
for  my  country/ 

"And  Marion,  the  Swamp  Fox,  living  for  seven 
years  in  a  hollow  tree,  subsisting  on  Spanish  moss 
and  cold  potatoes.  .  .  . 

"Did  these  men,  and  the  thousands  like  them, 
do  the  things  that  they  did  because  they  enjoyed  it? 
Did  they  leave  comfortable  homes,  their  wives,  their 
children,  their  means  of  livelihood,  and  go  and 
sleep  in  the  mud  and  live  on  dog  biscuit  with  worms 
in  it;  and  fall  forward  with  bloody  gashes  in  their 
bodies  made  by  Hessian-chewed  bullets;  finally  to 
be  dumped  into  a  long  trench  on  a  barren  hillside 
where  their  bones  should  rot  unnamed,  unknown, 
because  they  were  tired  of  the  monotony  of  peace? 

"They  did  not.  They  did  these  things  because 
they  were  Men.  Because,,  to  them  there  was  one 
thing  more  horrible  even  than  the  horrors  of  war; 
and  that  was  the  kind  of  peace  that  makes  of  men 
slaves,  and  of  women  concubines.  .  .  . 

"And  it  is  because  of  these  splendid  Men  from 
whose  loins  we  sprang — of  these  glorious  women 
that  gave  us  birth,  that  I  say  there's  yet  hope  for 
your  old  Uncle  Sham.  He  may  have  been  a  poor 


UNCLE   SHAM  167 

old  fool;  but  he's  all  right  at  heart.  Already  he's 
changed  from  a  pacifist  to  a  weakling.  Soon,  pray 
God,  he'll  be  a  man  again.  And  when  he  does, 
when  finally  he  cleans  out  his  brain  and  his  capitol, 
look  out  for  him! 

"Don't  forget  that  he's  the  same  old  lad  that 
licked  the  Indians ;  that,  with  nothing  but  a  muzzle- 
loading  flintlock  and  one  suspender,  walloped  the 
English  at  Bunker  Hill ;  that  bathed  himself  in  blood 
at  Gettysburg ;  that  freed  Cuba  and  the  Philippines ; 
and  that,  because  of  wrrong  to  American  citizens, 
sailed  half  across  the  world  to  Tripoli  to  hang  the 
murderers  to  their  own  yard-arms.  He's  stood  up 
for  his  own,  and  for  other  people's,  rights  for  a 
good  long  time  now.  He's  fought  the  fight  of  God 
and  man  for  a  good  big  handful  of  generations. 
Don't  blame  him  too  harshly  that  he's  wrong  now; 
it's  that  he's  weakly  listened  to  the  bad  advice  of  a 
lot  of  bad  advisers;  and  even  they,  perhaps,  have 
meant  well.  But  'He  Meant  Well/  is  a  weakling's 
excuse,  and  a  fool's  epitaph." 

My  friend  rose  and  looked  out  into  the  dying 
day. 

"I'm  proud  that  I'm  an  American  of  course,"  he 
said,  slowly.  "Only,  I  wish  to  God  we'd  wake  up !" 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

"WE'LL    DALLY    'ROUND 
THE    FLAG,    BOYS!" 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 
"WE'LL  DALLY  'ROUND  THE  FLAG,  BOYS  !" 

WE  were  discussing  Latest  Developments.     It 
was  my  friend  who  spoke. 

"When,  in  the  year  nineteen  fifty-something,  His 
tory  shall  sit  back  in  his  chair,  light  a  good  free- 
burning  five-cent  cigar,  and  look  over  the  notes  he 
made  contemporaneously  as  to  what  your  Uncle 
Samuel  was  doing  during  the  first  two  years  of  the 
great  war  in  Europe,  he'll  certainly  have  a  hard 
time  believing  what  he  then  jotted  down  was  really 
so.  And  the  more  he  reads,  the  more  the  actions  of 
your  dignified  Uncle  will  remind  him  of  the  old 
lady  that  went  to  sleep  and  dreamed  she  was  awake 
and  then  woke  up  to  find  she  was  asleep.  And 
when  at  length  History  puts  down  his  notes  and 
sharpens  his  lead  pencil,  he'll  heave  a  sigh  and 
murmur  sadly,  'I  can't  write  any  such  stuff  as  that. 
Nobody'll  believe  it  in  the  first  place,  and  they'll 
think  I'm  crazy  besides.  And  if  all  Uncle  Sam's 
grandchildren  don't  come  around  and  beat  me  up, 
they'll  sure  sue  me  for  libel  a  whole  lot.'  But,  being 
hired  by  the  year,  History '11  have  to  write  it;  and, 
what  is  worse,  our  children  and  our  children's  chil- 

171 


172  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

dren  will  have  to  read  it.  At  which  they're  going 
to  get  red  in  the  face  and  stutter  and  try  to  explain 
to  the  rest  of  the  world  that  they're  really  very 
sorry  and  if  they'd  had  any  idea  of  what  actually 
was  going  on,  they'd  have  called  in  a  couple  of  good 
alienists  and  had  the  old  man  examined  and  put  in 
some  nice  place  where  he  could  have  imagined  he 
was  Napoleon  without  annoying  anybody. 

"Look  at  the  old  chap  now.  He's  sitting  back 
with  his  chest  all  puffed  out  because  he  thinks  he's 
told  Germany  where  to  head  in  at,  gosh  ding  it, 
while  even  before  we  can  finish  this  conversation 
Germany  may  have  decided  that  it's  to  her  interest 
to  change  her  mind,  as  she  threatened,  and  blow 
up  a  lot  more  of  our  ships  and  citizens  and  thereby 
force  him  to  begin  writing  notes  again ;  for,  if  any 
thing  has  been  adduced  to  show  that  Germany  is 
any  the  less  willing,  and  any  the  less  able,  to  blow 
up  our  ships  now  than  she  was  two  years  ago,  it 
hasn't  been  revealed  to  an  anxious  public.  If  the 
treaty  with  Belgium  was  only  a  scrap  of  paper, 
what  in  heaven's  name  is  a  note  more  or  less  to  the 
United  States?  And  yet  here  the  old  man  is  sitting 
back  as  though  he'd  really  done  something,  without 
even  sense  enough  to  save  himself  work  by  having 
the  old  notes  mimeographed,  leaving  blank  places 
for  the  proper  names  and  improper  actions,  in  case 


"DALLY  'ROUND  THE  FLAG!"    173 

he  shall  have  to  start  in  with  a  new  series,  numbers 
6,701  to  9,407,  inclusive. 

"And,  having  thus  attained  no  solution  at  all  of 
anything  with  Germany,  he  thereupon  keeps  on  writ 
ing  notes  to  Mexico  in  pursuit,  apparently,  of  the 
same  valueless  objective,  at  the  same  time  sending 
into  that  stricken,  chaotic  country  a  punitive  expedi 
tion  that  does  nothing  but  make  Mexico  sore  and 
himself  ridiculous;  and  then  to  further  complicate 
proceedings,  he  calls  out  an  ill-equipped,  untrained 
and  unacclimated  National  Guard,  fine  in  spirit  and 
in  patriotism  to  be  sure,  but  wofully  helpless  in 
potential  accomplishment. 

"If  writing  notes  can  settle  anything,  why 
do  we  call  out  soldiers?  If  writing  notes 
can't  settle  anything,  why  have  we  been  writ 
ing  them  for  three  years?  And  if  writing  notes 
fails  to  accomplish  anything  in  Mexico,  why 
should  it  be  expected  to  accomplish  anything 
with  Germany,  or  England,  or  any  other  power? 
And  if  we  need  soldiers  to  defend  ourselves 
against  Mexico,  or  to  defend  Mexico  against  her 
self,  why  don't  we  need  ten  times  as  many  to  de 
fend  ourselves  against  nations  ten  times  as  large? 
And  when  it  comes  to  that,  what  are  we  trying 
to  do  in  the  first  place?  We  are  either  attempt 
ing  to  do  things  by  notes,  or  by  force.  We  are 


174  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

either  in  danger  of  war,  or  we  aren't.  We  either 
need  soldiers,  or  we  don't.  If  we  do  need  them,  we 
need  enough.  If  we  don't  need  them,  we  don't 
need  any.  All  of  which  is  so  obvious  that  if  a  six- 
year-old  adolescent  can't  see  it,  he  should  be  put 
back  making  paper-mats  in  the  kindergarten.  And 
yet  your  Uncle  Sam,  confronted  with  these  ques 
tions  in  elementary  intelligence,  says  one  day  that 
we  are  in  no  danger  of  being  involved  in  trouble, 
and  the  next  day  sits  back  on  his  haunches  and  howls 
like  a  wolf  for  the  biggest  navy  in  the  world.  One 
day  he  is  too  proud  to  fight,  and  the  next  he  feels 
himself  in  a  fighting  mood.  One  day  he  wants  this 
kind  of  an  army,  the  next  he  wants  that  kind,  the 
third  some  other  kind,  and  the  fourth  he  doesn't 
want  any  at  all !  One  day  he  says  that  all  the  Eu 
ropean  nations  are  mad  and  not  to  be  held  account 
able  to  the  mental  processes  of  the  sane.  The  next 
day  he  wants  to  arbitrate,  according  to  his  own 
statement,  among  lunatics  in  a  mad-house.  It  must 
please  a  nation  like  France,  spirited,  spiritual,  de 
fending  its  very  hearthstone  against  rape,  rapine 
and  slaughter,  to  be  compared  to  the  nation  that 
committed  the  Belgian  atrocities  and  sunk  the  Lusi- 
tania.  It  would  be  like  seeing  a  fine  earnest  citizen 
trying  to  protect  his  women,  his  children  and  his 
home  against  a  red-handed  maniac,  and  then  have  a 


"DALLY  'ROUND  THE  FLAG!"    175 

nice  old  gentleman  with  whiskers  stand  across  the 
street  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  say,  'Look 
at  those  two  poor  nuts !  After  I  get  through  count 
ing  the  petty  cash  and  getting  the  deliveries  off,  I'll 
go  over  and  arbitrate  'em  a  whole  lot.'  And  what 
makes  it  all  more  startlingly  grotesque,  he  first  says 
they're  crazy,  and  then  that  he's  willing  to  arbitrate ! 
If  they're  crazy,  how  can  he  arbitrate?  And  if  he 
can  arbitrate,  then  they  can't  be  crazy;  so  why 
did  he  say  so  in  the  first  place?  One  day  he  says, 
forgetting  that  Mexico  is  a  nation  of  Indians  crossed 
with  bad  Spanish,  that  that  stricken  and  helpless 
country  has  the  same  right  to  work  out  its  own  sal 
vation  that  had  the  educated  and  able  citizens  of 
Colonial  America;  and  even  while  he  is  saying  it 
with  one  hand,  with  the  other  he  is  chasing  the  in 
habitants  of  Haiti  and  San  Domingo  so  far  back  in 
the  hills  that  they  haven't  seen  the  custom  house  in 
weeks.  If  Mexico  has  that  right,  why  hasn't  Haiti? 
If  Haiti  hasn't,  why  has  Mexico? 

"One  day  he  accuses  Carranza  of  being  a  treach 
erous  accomplice  of  murderers  in  the  committing 
of  outrages,  atrocities  and  mutilations  and  the  next 
day  he  writes  him  notes  as  though  he  were  a  civilised 
being,  neglecting  to  explain  why,  if  Carranza  is 
a  treacherous  accomplice  of  murderers,  he  is  any 
more  deserving  of  notes  than  a  Gyp  the  Blood.  And 


176  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

the  third  day  he  says  that  what  he  wrote  about 
Carranza  wasn't  so  but  said  only  to  arouse  the 
United  States  and  to  frighten  Carranza.  One  day 
he  sends  soldiers  into  Mexico,  and  the  next  day  he 
takes  'em  out.  Then  he  sends  'em  in  again.  Then 
he  takes  those  out.  Then  he  calls  out  some  more, 
but  not  a  third  enough  to  accomplish  anything. 
Then  he  tells  some  of  these  they  needn't  go.  Then 
he  writes  some  more  notes.  Then  he  doesn't  write 
some  more  notes.  And  the  higher  the  fewer.  And 
why  is  a  mouse  when  it  spins? 

"And  there  you  have  the  poor  old  man  horning  in 
one  day  on  matters  that  are  none  of  his  business; 
horning  out  the  next  on  matters  that  are ;  butting  in 
here,  butting  out  there;  half  at  peace,  half  at  war 
and  half  in  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen,  entirely 
unready  to  make  war  yet  entirely  helpless  to  make 
peace,  shaking  his  fist  one  minute  and  his  finger  the 
next.  And  what  his  idea  is,  if  he  has  any,  which 
he  hasn't,  goodness  knows;  for  when  you  pin  him 
down  to  facts,  he  rises  and  maunders  something 
about  America  first  and  the  higher  laws  of  humanity 
and  the  nobler  duties  of  mankind  and  sits  down 
amid  the  ladylike  applause  of  a  few  people  with 
pear-shaped  heads  and  no  chins  who  have  come 
to  listen  to  him  because  mother  was  housecleaning 
and  they  didn't  have  anywhere  else  to  go. 


"DALLY  'BOUND  THE  FLAG!"    177 

"Poor,  poor  old  Uncle  Sam !  That  fine,  splendid, 
wonderful  old  man !  To  have  let  himself  be  dragged 
so  far  to  folly,  so  deep  in  deceit,  by  these  few  men 
he  has  placed  in  power  to  think  for  him  and  to  act 
for  him,  and  who  have  failed  him  so  utterly !  .  .  . 
And  how  ache  the  hearts  of  his  children! 

"What  must  think  Abraham  Lincoln,  and  U.  S. 
Grant,  and  Sherman,  and  Sheridan  of  their  country 
to-day;  what  must  think  all  those  splendid  men  in 
blue  that  went  to  war  in  '61  for  an  ideal;  even  as 
what  must  think  Lee,  and  Jackson  and  Beauregard 
and  the  splendid  men  in  grey  who  fought  so  bravely 
with  them  for  an  ideal? 

"Can't  you  see  them  now,  grim  and  bronzed, 
grouped  around  the  fires  of  night,  singing  their  bat 
tle  songs  ?  I'd  like  to  make  a  little  side  bet  that  for 
one  thing  they've  got  the  songs  rewritten  for  us, 
starting  with,| 

"  'We'll  dally  'round  the  flag,  boys,  we'll  dally  once 

again, 
Writing  more  notes  about  our  freedom/ 

"And  the  next, 

"  'John  Brown's  body  keeps  a-turning  in  its  grave, 
John  Brown's  body  keeps  a-turning  in  its  grave, 
John  Brown's  body  keeps  a-turning  in  its  grave 
As  we  go  maund'ring  on.' 


178  SCABS   AND    STRIPES 

"And  following  that  with, 

"  'We  shall  meet,  but  we'll  do  nothing, 
There  will  be  one  vacant  stare. 
We  will  linger  to  write  letters, 
And  we'll  lick  our  foes  with  prayer/ 

"And, 

"  Tut  another  ribbon  in,  we'll  write  another  note, 
This  will  be  the  nicest  one  that  we  have  ever 

wrote, 

One  that  sure  will  bring  to  us  the  Pacifistic  vote, 
While  we  all  wait  for  election !' 

"Can  you  appreciate  their  feelings  as  they  read 
over  our  latest  correspondence  with  Carranza — a 
correspondence  which,  while  the  first  forty  or  fifty 
letters  were  models  of  formality,  courtesy  and  dic 
tion  and  as  good  as  any  correspondence  school  in 
the  country  could  teach  you  in  five  lessons,  later 
grew  sassier  and  sassier.  It  went  something  like 
this! 

V.  CARRANZA,  ESQ., 

Mexico  City. 

DEAR  SIR: 

Inasmuch  as  the  bandit,  Francisco  Villa,  has  en 
tered  United  States  territory  and  ruthlessly  slaugh 
tered  United  States  citizens,  it  is  the  desire  of  the 


"DALLY  'ROUND  THE  FLAG!"    179 

United  States  government  to  send  in  troops  to  ap 
prehend  said  bandit.  Therefore  I  respectfully  re 
quest  permission  of  the  Mexican  defective — I  mean 
de  facto — government  to  send  United  States  troops 
into  Mexico.  Hoping  you  are  well  and  with  kind 
regards, 

UNCLE  SAM. 

"To  which  the  answer: 

UNCLE  SAM, 

Washington. 
DEAR  SIR: 

You  may  or  may  not  send  in  troops.  If  you  do, 
or  do  not,  it  is  under  three  conditions.  The  first  is 
that  you  don't  let  them  use  the  roads  or  the  rail 
roads.  The  second  is  that  they  go  home  when  we 
say  so.  The  third  is  that  they  don't  come  in  in  the 
first  place. 

CARRANZA. 

"And  in  reply  to  this: 

V.  CARRANZA, 

Mexico  City. 
DEAR  SIR: 

Thank  you  for  your  kind  letter  of  last  month,  or 
some  time.  We  were  quite  sure  of  your  whole- 
souled  and  generous  cooperation  in  this  matter  and 
are  heartily  glad  to  make  our  soldiers  walk,  and  as 
soon  as  we  can  find  out  where  they're  manufactured 


180  SCARS   AND   STEIPES 

we're  going  to  send  them  a  motor-truck  which  will 
be  very  nice,  don't  you  think  so? 

UNCLE  SAM. 

"Then,  after  going  in  to  catch  Villa  with  about 
as  much  chance  of  accomplishing  said  feat  as  a  blind 
man  has  of  catching  a  bat  in  the  Mammoth  Cave, 
comes  the  following: 

UNCLE  SAM, 

Washington,  D.  C. 

I  must  immediately  request  that  you  remove  your 
soldiers,  as  I  find  that  their  present  presence  is  mak 
ing  the  Mexican  people  sore  at  me,  and  if  you  don't 
know  what  a  Mexican  is  like  when  he's  sore,  come 
down  some  time  and  pay  me  a  little  visit  and  I'd 
admire  to  show  you,  and  bring  your  friends  with 
you.  The  more  the  merrier.  Don't  make  any  plans 
though  as  to  when  you'll  be  back  home  as  your  folks 
are  liable  to  be  disappointed.  Hence,  in  pursuance 
of  the  second  clause  of  our  recent  agreement,  I  must 
respectfully  urge  that  you  take  your  soldiers  out 
quick.  I  must  also  call  to  your  attention  the  third 
condition,  which  was  that  you  wasn't  to  send  'em 
in  in  the  first  place. 

CARRANZA. 

"And  the  reply;  the  most  amazing  epistolatory 
national  confession  since  the  German  chancellor 
declared  the  treaty  with  Belgium  a  scrap  of  paper, 
since  it  admits  that  for  three  years  we  have  allowed 


"DALLY  'ROUND  THE  FLAG!"    181 

our  citizens  to  be  murdered  in  Mexico  and  have 
done  nothing  about  it  except  to  write  notes : 

CARRANZA, 

Mexico  City. 

In  pursuance  to  your  recent  note,  we  cannot  take 
our  soldiers  out,  as  to  do  so  would  put  us  in  Dutch 
ourselves.  For  three  years  now,  American  lives 
have  been  sacrificed,  American  enterprises  de 
stroyed,  there  have  been  committed  on  American 
citizens  outrage  after  outrage,  atrocity  after  atroc 
ity;  and  this  with  your  full  knowledge  while  you 
stood  by  powerless  or  unwilling  to  prevent.  We 
have  tried  to  be  nice  about  the  matter  of  the  taking 
of  American  lives.  All  we  have  done  about  it  in 
three  years  is  to  write  you  notes — an  I  for  an  eye, 
and  a  note  for  a  life,  so  to  speak — and  as  far  as  we 
are  concerned,  we'd  keep  on  until  you  died  of  old 
age  or  something;  because  we  are  a  great  and  hu 
mane  country  and  we  don't  believe  in  making  war 
on  weak  and  helpless  nations,  not  even  when  they 
are  licking  us.  But  we  beg  to  advise  you  that  we 
are  going  to  leave  our  soldiers  stay  where  they  are, 
and  what  do  you  know  about  that  ? 

UNCLE  SAM. 

"To  which  amazing  epistle,  Carranze  replies: 

UNCLE  SAM, 

Washington,  D.  C. 

Your  nasty  letter  received.  If  you  think  you're 
going  to  beat  me  by  talking  me  to  death,  you've  got 


182  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

another  guess  coming.  I  may  raise  whiskers  but 
I've  been  off  the  farm  a  long  time.  Furthermore, 
I'm  sick  of  setting  up  all  night  reading  your  letters. 
My  bills  for  having  them  translated  is  running  up 
into  hundreds;  and  after  they're  translated,  they 
ain't  worth  anything  anyhow  except  as  samples  of 
what  not  to  do  in  diplomacy.  So  all  I've  got  to  say 
is  you  pack  up  your  soldiers  and  get  out  of  my  coun 
try.  Don't  think  you  can  bluff  me,  you  great  big 
piece  of  cheese. 

Respectfully, 

V.  CARRANZA. 

"To  which  the  response : 

V.  CARRANZA,  ESQ., 

Mexico  City. 

Is  that  so  ?  Well,  we  feel  in  a  fighting  mood  this 
morning  and  we  don't  believe  in  words  that  aren't 
translated  into  deeds. 

UNCLE  SAM. 

"And  to  this: 

UNCLE  SAM, 

Washington,  D.  C. 

Don't  make  me  laugh.  If  you  don't  believe  in 
words  that  aren't  translated  into  deeds,  why  haven't 
you  translated  some?  If  you  don't  understand  the 
language,  you  can  find  a  dictionary  in  any  book 
store.  In  closing  I  have  only  to  remark,  you  get 


"DALLY  'ROUND  THE  FLAG!"    183 

your  soldiers  out  of  here;  if  you  don't,  you  won't 
know  'em  next  time  you  see  'em.  I've  already  issued 
orders  to  General  Trevino,  that  gallant  patriot  and 
humanitarian,  that  if  he  catches  'em  marching  any 
way  except  backwards,  to  cut  loose  at  'em  a  whole 
lot.  And  as  he  loves  'em  about  as  much  as  I  do, 
he's  due  to  put  his  whole,  earnest  soul  into  the  en 
deavour. 

CARRANZA. 

"And  after  making  good  his  threat  and  slaughter 
ing  a  number  of  the  Tenth  Cavalry  and  taking  a 
number  of  others  as  prisoners,  comes  this : 

V.  CARRANZA,  ESQ., 

Mexico  City. 

How  dare  you  kill  our  soldiers,  you  nasty  horrid 
old  thing?  You  give  us  back  our  prisoners,  or  we'll 
declare  war  on  you.  We've  already  called  out  our 
National  Guard,  and  as  soon  as  they  can  find  the 
shoes  we  haven't  provided  them  with,  they'll  walk 
down  there ;  and  then  you  better  look  out ! 

"And  from  Carranza,  as  he  surrenders  his  cap 
tives — and  I  want  to  stop  right  here  to  say  that  my 
hat's  off  to  these  men  of  the  Tenth.  If  we'd  had  a 
little  of  their  spirit  at  Washington  the  last  three 
years,  things  would  have  been  a  whole  lot  different 
to-day : 


184  SCARS  AND  STEIPES 

UNCLE  SAM, 

Washington. 

Take  your  darned  old  soldiers.  I  don't  want  'em 
anyhow. 

"And  to  this : 

CARRANZA, 

Mexico  City. 

Thank  you  for  returning  the  soldiers  you  didn't 
kill.  It  was  very  nice  of  you,  but  it  doesn't  quite 
settle  the  matter.  If  you  will  be  so  good,  we  would 
like  to  know  what  are  your  plans  for  the  future  ? 

"And  the  reply: 

UNCLE  SAM, 

Washington. 
None  of  your  darn  business. 

"And  to  this: 

CARRANZA, 

Mexico  City. 

We  would  like  further  information  or  we  will  be 
forced  to  take  definite  and  determined  action.  Just 
what  action  we  will  take  when  we  haven't  got  any 
thing  to  act  with,  would  require  too  long  to  explain. 
Nevertheless,  we  are  prepared  in  mind  and  in  soul, 
at  least ;  therefore,  we  must  demand  a  more  explicit 
answer. 


"DALLY  'ROUND  THE  FLAG!"    185 

"To  which: 

UNCLE  SAM, 

Washington. 
Aw,  shut  up !    You  make  me  tired. 

CARRANZA. 

"And  to  this: 

CARRANZA, 

Mexico  City. 
Shut  up  yourself! 

UNCLE  SAM. 

"And  then  what  ?  Did  they  come  to  blows  ?  Not 
these  two  lads.  Seeing  that  for  once  in  his  life 
your  Uncle  had  risen  above  the  control  of  his  mean 
advisers  and  was  about  to  take  things  in  his  own 
hands,  Carranza  climbs  right  down  off  his  Perch- 
eron. 

"And  what  does  your  Uncle  Samuel  do?  Does 
he,  finding  that  the  first  concrete  action  he's  taken  in 
three  years  is  productive  of  immediate  result,  decide 
to  pursue  further  that  successful  course?  Not  he! 
Thinking  that  because  once  Carranza  has  spoken 
civilly  to  him  he's  won  another  great  victory;  and 
that  because  he's  still  got  plenty  of  typewriting  paper 
he's  again  fully  prepared  for  any  contingency,  he 
slides  back  easily  and  gently  into  his  former  vicious 


186  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

habits  and  becomes  once  again  a  poor  old  word- 
drunkard,  fuddling  his  brains  with  language  and 
laxing  his  will  with  verbiage  the  while  he  embarks 
on  another  pitiable  orgy  of  phraseology  and  another 
shameless  debauch  of  words. 

"And  what  has  he  really  accomplished  ?  Not  one 
single  solitary  thing — except  delay.  What  have  all 
his  incursions  and  excursions  from  and  to  Mexico 
amounted  to?  Mexico  under  Diaz  was  like  our  own 
south  under  slavery.  There  were  two  classes;  the 
grossly  rich,  and  the  pitiably  poor.  Mexico  City 
under  these  conditions  was  one  of  the  most  beauti 
ful  cities  of  the  world,  replete  of  magnificence  and 
munificence,  of  jewels  and  Paris  gowns,  and  import 
ed  limousines  and  having  a  twenty-six-million-dollar 
opera-house.  Then,  in  contradistinction  to  our  own 
south  where  we  freed  the  slaves,  the  slaves  freed 
themselves.  The  rich  lost  control ;  some  were  killed, 
the  rest  fled  the  country  leaving  it  in  control  of  vari 
ous  bands  of  roving  marauders,  ignorant,  savage, 
cruel,  treacherous,  but  having  leaders  of  sufficient 
intelligence  to  read  and  write  notes,  pillaging,  loot 
ing,  raping  and  robbing  in  the  name  of  Liberty  but 
under  the  mantle  of  License.  And  that  is  where 
stands  the  Mexico  of  to-day. 

"To  those  that  urge  that  Mexico  have  the  right 
to  work  out  her  own  salvation  it  is  but  to  say  that 


"DALLY  'ROUND  THE  FLAG!"    187 

if  she  had  that  right  why  did  we  not  recognise  it 
when  she  had  the  chance  ?  She  had  Huerta.  Huerta 
was  a  strong  man.  Huerta  had  eighty  thousand  sol 
diers.  Mexico  could  have  worked  out  her  own  sal 
vation  through  Huerta.  To  be  sure,  she  would  have 
wallowed  in  blood  from  Chiapas  to  Chihuahua.  But 
she  could  have  done  it.  But  when  she  had  the 
power,  we  didn't  recognise  her  right.  And  now  that 
we  have  taken  away  the  power,  we  would  give  her 
back  the  right !  After  having  taken  away  Mexico's 
only  chance  to  work  out  her  so  to  speak  salvation, 
we  talk  about  giving  it  back  to  her  when  it's  too 
late  for  her  to  use  it.  And  if  that  isn't  a  darned  fool 
idea,  then  I  don't  know  what  is. 

"Having  then  deprived  Mexico  of  her  only  chance 
to  work  out  her  own  salvation ;  having  thus  directly 
and  deliberately  rendered  a  country,  which,  if  un 
civilized  and  ignorant,  was  at  least  rich  and  com 
paratively  peaceful,  a  chaos  of  blood  and  murder 
and  pillage  and  arson  and  rape,  how  have  we  met 
the  responsibility  that  we  thus  assumed?  Have  we 
tried  to  bring  order  out  of  chaos,  safety  out  of 
murder,  peace  out  of  war?  Oh,  my  yes!  We've 
tried  to  bring  order  out  of  chaos  by  putting  in  more 
chaos;  safety  out  of  murder  by  adding  more  mur 
der;  and  peace  out  of  war  by  helping  everybody 
further  to  wage  War.  In  our  efforts  to  bring  about 


188  SCARS   AND    STRIPES 

peace  we  have  given  Maderistas  guns  to  kill  Huer- 
tistas,  and  Carranzistas  guns  to  kill  Villistas,  and 
Villistas  guns  to  kill  Carranzistas,  and  we've  given 
'em  all  guns  with  which  to  kill  us.  For,  you  must 
know,  we're  the  cutest  little  peacemakers  in  the 
world  and  we  don't  believe  in  fighting ! 

"Hence  it  is  that  after  directly  plunging  Mexico 
into  the  bloodiest  mess  possible,  all  that  your  Uncle 
Samuel  has  done  to  atone  for  his  meddling  is  to  sit 
himself  down  and  write  notes !  Mexicans  are  being 
massacred?  All  right,  we'll  write  'em  a  note.  .  .  . 
Americans  are  being  slaughtered  ?  Oh,  to  be  sure ! 
Boy,  another  sheet  of  carbon.  .  .  .  There  are  being 
committed  outrage  after  outrage,  atrocity  after 
atrocity!  .  .  .  We'll  write  'em  again.  Hee,  hi, 
hum!  For  another  little  note  won't  do  us  any 
harm.  .  .  .  They're  over  the  border  killing  United 
States  citizens  on  United  States  soil?  .  .  .  Well, 
well,  now  what  do  you  think  of  that?  We'll  tell 
'em  a  few  lies  this  time.  Boy,  a  new  ribbon. 

"And  that's  what  the  old  gentleman's  been  doing 
for  three  years.  Nor  even  yet  has  he  found  out 
the  fatuousness,  the  futility,  the  disgrace,  the  dis 
honour  and  the  shame  of  it  all.  Drunk  with  words, 
sodden  and  stupid  in  the  coma  of  conversation,  he 
keeps  dodderingly,  besottedly,  slamming  away  on 
his  typewriter.  And  it  looks  as  though  the  only 


"DALLY  'ROUND  THE  FLAG!"    189 

thing  that  will  stop  him  is  that  people  will  get  sick 
of  answering  him,  or  else  somebody '11  get  sore  and 
bust  his  typewriter — or  maybe  sneak  up  behind 
him  while  he's  in  the  middle  of  a  paragraph  and 
hit  him  on  the  head  with  a  piece  of  lead  pipe. 

"But  one  thing  he  has  done ;  for,  even  if  he  hasn't 
learned  anything  himself,  he's  given  the  rest  of 
the  world  the  best  possible  concrete  and  absolute 
illustration  of  the  futility  of  our  national  policy. 
And  he's  proven  beyond  a  perad venture  of  a  doubt 
the  uses  of  notes  are  limited  to  the  discussion  of 
honourable  matters  with  honourable  people  who 
will  abide  by  the  rules.  You  and  I  can  write  notes 
to  each  other  because  we  are  fairly  intelligent  white 
men  who  don't  enjoy  killing  or  being  killed,  and 
who  view  with  distinct  disfavour  the  black  eye  and 
the  bloody  nose.  Hence  notes  are  of  use  to  us. 

"But  when  you  meet  a  mad  dog,  you  don't  sit 
right  down  and  write  him  a  long  letter  about  the 
higher  laws  of  mankind  and  that  you  don't  approve 
of  hydrophobia  as  a  practice  and  he  must  desist  at 
once,  or  you'll  write  him  another  note,  this  time 
harsher.  You  might  as  well  try  to  tame  a  Nubian 
lion  with  a  McGufTey  Third  Reader,  or  restrain  a 
drunken  murderer  by  reading  him  Emerson's  Es 
says. 

"At  the  start  of  the  great  war,  Germany  candidly 


190  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

and  openly  announced  to  the  world  that  she  had 
thrown  away  the  book  of  rules  that  civilisation  had 
written,  and  adopted  in  its  place  the  policy  of  Force. 
Hence,  any  efforts  to  cope  with  Germany  have  had 
to  be,  still  have  to  be,  in  kind.  A  nice  polite  note 
is  no  reply  against  a  forty-two  centimetre  gun.  If 
you  don't  believe  me,  ask  the  blood-raw  corpse  of 
Belgium.  She  tried  writing  notes.  Also  she  did 
the  best  she  could  to  meet  force  with  force.  But  her 
force  was  the  weaker.  Hence  over  her  beaten  body 
rolls  the  Juggernaut  of  Force. 

One  of  the  main  curses  that  your  Uncle  Sam  has 
had  to  contend  with,  is  that  he  has  been  surrounded 
in  the  high  places  by  half  thinkers.  By  this  I  mean 
men  who  get  a  small  piece  of  an  idea  and  let  it  go  at 
that.  Take  Bryan,  emitting  his  ponderous  plati 
tudes. 

"Says  Bryan,  'Might  doesn't  make  right/  Quite 
true.  Might  doesn't  make  right.  But,  if  you  carry 
the  idea  along,  neither  does  right  make  might. 
Christ  was  right.  But  it  didn't  save  Him  from 
crucifixion.  Countless  thousands  of  gentle,  kindly, 
loving  women,  of  innocent  little  children  that 
were  not  old  enough  to  be  anything  but  right  have 
been  slaughtered  in  the  world  during  the  last  two 
hell-born  years.  They  were  right.  But  it  didn't 
prevent  their  being  raped,  mutilated  and  slaughtered. 


"DALLY  'ROUND  THE  FLAG!"    191 

"Again  we  have  the  head  of  our  nation  asserting 
that  no  lasting  thing  has  ever  been  created  by  war, 
I'd  like  to  hear  him  tell  that  to  George  Washington, 
or  Patrick  Henry,  or  Abraham  Lincoln,  or  U.  S. 
Grant.  The  United  States  of  America  was  created 
by  war.  It's  lasted  pretty  well  so  far.  Slavery  was 
abolished  in  the  South  by  war.  The  freedom  of  the 
slaves  has  lasted  pretty  well,  too. 

"And  France.  From  the  bleeding  spasm  of  the 
Revolution  she  came,  from  a  tyrant-ruled  country  of 
slavery,  to  be  a  nation  great  and  strong.  And  from 
the  purging  fire  of  the  present  war  is  she  emerging 
clean  of  soul,  fine  of  courage,  mighty  of  honour. 

"To  say  that  no  lasting  thing  has  ever  been  cre 
ated  by  war  is  to  make  a  statement  strange  and 
incomprehensible.  For  the  truth  of  it  is  that  very 
few  lasting  things  have  been  made  except  by  war, 
or  in  the  safe  protection  given  of  war  and  kept 
by  the  force  that  war  has  made.  Civilisation  has 
been  made  by  war.  Few  people,  or  peoples,  have 
ever  become  civilised  from  choice.  Civilisation 
has  been  rammed  down  their  throats  with  a  gun  bar 
rel.  Look  at  the  Cubans.  Look  at  the  Filipinos. 
Look  at  our  own  Indians.  A  few  years  ago  they 
were  bounding  over  the  boundless  plains  with  a  bow 
and  arrow  in  one  hand  and  a  human  scalp  in  the 


192  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

other,  playfully  stopping  now  and  again  to  massacre 
a  few  whites  or  to  roll  them  up  in  green  cowhides 
that,  in  the  sun's  heat,  shrunk  to  the  size  of  a  foot 
ball  with  the  crushed  corpse  inside.  And  then  we 
went  out  there  with  Force  and  War  and  now  the 
Indians  go  to  school  and  wear  pants  and  everything. 
And  there's  another  thing  that  war  has  done;  and 
that,  too,  is  going  to  last,  at  least  as  long  as  the 
Indians  themselves  last,  or  as  long  as  we  last  to 
make  war  on  'em  if  they  budge  off  the  reservation. 
"When  you  come  to  a  final  analysis,  everything 
that  has  really  come  to  this  world  since  its  begin 
ning  has  been  born  of  war  or  of  the  force  that  would 
be  war  if  needs  must.  The  instinct  of  man  is  toward 
destruction.  His  brain  is  toward  construction.  But 
until  his  brain  is  developed,  his  instinct  governs. 
Children  prove  that.  Why  do  children  love  to  break 
windows,  and  tear  up  flowers,  and  throw  stones  at 
dogs,  and  pull  cats'  tails,  and  step  on  toads?  It's 
because  their  brains  are  not  developed  and  their  in 
stincts  rule  them.  And  unless  you  said,  'Don't  do 
that,'  to  them ;  unless  you  trained  them  and  educated 
them  and  taught  them  and  worked  over  them  they 
would  grow  up  bad ;  that  is,  unless,  as  they  grew  up, 
their  brains  developed  so  that  they  could  do  all  these 
things  for  themselves.  And  this  contention  is 
proven  by  the  head  hunters.  They  have  been  hunt- 


"DALLY  'ROUND  THE  FLAG!"    193 

ing  heads  for  generations ;  they  still  hunt  heads,  and 
no  humble  bungalow  in  all  their  country  is  happy 
without  a  few  human  heads  reposing  on  the  mantel 
piece,  or  hung  up  among  the  wistaria  on  the  front 
porch.  And  why?  Because  nobody  has  ever  come 
among  them  to  slam  'em  down  and  sit  on  them  while 
they  educated  them  to  the  fact  that  a  human  head 
is  really  of  no  practical  value  except  when  it's  on 
human  shoulders,  and  that  as  an  ornament,  it's  far 
outclassed  by  a  globe  full  of  wax  flowers,  or  a  por 
ous  motto  with  God  Bless  Our  Home  done  on  it  in 
blue  worsted. 

"There  are  two  major  forces  in  the  world  that 
make  for  progress,  for  development  and  for  civ 
ilisation — religion  and  education.  And  throughout 
all  history  you  will  find  these  two  riding  to  their 
kingdoms  on  the  conquering  back  of  the  Force  that 
is  war  if  needs  must.  Sometimes  Force  can  work 
successfully  without  the  aid  of  war,  which  happens 
where  people  are  naturally  peaceable.  We  have 
done  in  this  way  what  we  could  for  the  freed  slaves 
of  the  South,  forcing  them  without  the  aid  of  war 
to  go  to  school,  to  abide  by  the  law,  and  sending 
them  missionaries  who,  in  reality,  are  but  warriors 
though  they  carry  Bibles  instead  of  rifles.  But  it 
was  only  that  the  negroes  were  willing  to  listen  to 
the  Bibles  that  kept  us  from  using  the  rifles.  On 


194  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

the  other  hand  you  have  the  Filipinos.  The  only 
argument  they  understood  was  a  bolo  or  a  bullet. 
Hence  we  had  to  argue  with  them  with  bolos  and 
bullets  until  those  that  were  left  were  in  a  mood 
receptive  of  Bibles.  And  now  over  there  in  the 
Philippines  they  don't  celebrate  the  capture  of  a 
prisoner  by  staking  him  out  on  an  ant  hill,  or  tear 
ing  him  to  pieces  with  a  bent  bamboo.  They  go  to 
school,  and  read  the  Bible,  and  have  become,  if 
not  good,  at  least  peaceable  citizens.  But  it  was 
done  by  War  first ;  and  by  other  things  afterward. 
"No,  when  you  come  to  think  it  out,  war  seems 
like  some  gigantic  form  of  childbirth.  .  .  .  And 
of  the  childbirth  of  war,  even  as  the  childbirth  of 
woman,  comes  Something.  .  .  .  Sometimes  this 
Something  is  malformed ;  sometimes  it  is  still-born, 
and  sometimes  it  is  good  and  fine  and  wonderful  in 
its  perfect  beauty.  .  .  .  But  always,  of  war  as  of 
woman,  is  it  born  of  suffering,  of  torture  and  of 
pain.  .  .  .  And  why?  It  would  seem  to  us  that 
childbirth  ought  to  be  the  most  gloriously  beautiful, 
the  most  sublimely  perfect,  of  all  of  earth  that  can 
come  to  woman.  ...  In  spirit  it  is  so.  In  spirit 
uality  it  is  so.  And  yet,  in  fact,  it  is  tearing,  rack 
ing,  cruel.  .  .  .  Why  ?  That  it  is  given  only  to  God 
to  know.  .  .  .  And  so,  I  think,  it  is  with  war.  .  .  . 
For  it  is  given  us  of  earth  only  to  understand  finite 


"DALLY  'ROUND  THE  FLAG!"    195 

things  with  a  finite  mind.  ...  All  else,  for  us,  is  as 
hidden  as  the  heart  of  heaven  from  a  cannibal. 

"And  to  the  finite  mind  is  the  world  revealed  only 
as  a  struggle  that  began  when  the  world  began,  that 
will  end  only  when  the  world  shall  end.  Who  lives 
the  longest  in  this  world?  He  who  rights  hardest 
for  his  health  and  well  being.  Who  makes  the  most 
converts  to  God?  The  church  that  fights  hardest 
to  that  end.  The  forces  of  evil  fight  even  as  fight 
the  forces  for  good.  Prohibitionists  fight  against 
alcohol  even  as  men  who  make  money  by  alcohol 
fight  for  it.  Clergymen  fight  to  fill  their  churches 
even  as  saloon  keepers  and  moving-picture  theatres 
and  baseball  magnates  fight  to  empty  them.  Even 
pacifists  who  do  not  believe  in  fighting  fight  to  pre 
vent  fighting.  According  to  his  own  doctrine,  ac 
cording  to  everything  he  preaches,  a  pacifist  ought 
only  to  stay  at  home  and  set  a  noble  example.  Yet 
you  find  them  organising  Peace  Leagues  and  Anti- 
War  Societies,  which  in  themselves  are  armies; 
electing  officers  which  are  in  themselves  precisely 
analogous  to  the  officers  of  an  army;  and  holding 
great  meetings ;  which  are  in  themselves  battles. 

"And  it  isn't  because  they're  wrong  in  fighting. 
It's  just  because  they  don't  understand.  They  fight 
as  all  the  world  fights,  as  all  the  world  has  ever 
fought;  as  all  the  world  will  ever  fight.  Because 


196  SCARS   AND    STRIPES 

they  themselves  are  nothing  but  battlefields.  Science 
has  shown  that  every  pacifist,  like  everybody  else,  is 
full  of  friendly  and  unfriendly  germs.  Whereby 
these  germs,  in  their  millions,  are  like  the  armies  of 
the  Kaiser  and  the  King.  Day  and  night,  year  in 
and  year  out,  do  they  battle  in  the  human  trenches 
of  our  bodies,  charging  here,  routed  there,  fighting, 
fighting,  fighting.  ...  In  gallant  fury,  the  Fight 
ing  White  Corpuscles  rush  along  the  embattled  veins 
driving  all  before  them.  .  .  .  Then  is  a  body 
sick.  .  .  .  Come  the  Gallant  Red  Corpuscles,  hun 
dreds  of  thousands  strong.  Shouting  the  battle-cry 
of  Germdom  they  fling  themselves  full  force  upon 
the  Whitened  hordes.  .  .  .  Back  and  forth  they 
surge  in  hand-to-hand  combat.  .  .  .  Who  will 
win?  .  .  .  Along  the  left  flank  the  White  Cor 
puscles  are  wavering.  .  .  .  The  Red  Reserves  are 
called  into  action.  ...  In  thousands  they  fling 
themselves  upon  the  bulging  line  of  White.  ...  It 
shivers  from  the  shock.  ...  It  breaks.  .  .  .  Flee, 
frantic,  frightened,  broken,  the  Whitened  lines.  .  ,  . 
Follow  the  victorious  Reds.  .  .  .  Hurrah!  Vic 
tory!  Victory  is  ours!  .  .  .  And  we  are  well 
again ! 

"And  when  all  that's  going  on  inside  a  Pacifist, 
no  wonder  he  fights! 

"I  wonder  if  these  Pacifists  really  realise  how  ab- 


"DALLY  'ROUND  THE  FLAG!"   197 

surd,  how  pitiful,  or  how  benighted  they  look  as 
they  stand  there  mouthing  their  Half  Truths,  born 
of  their  Half  Thoughts  that  are  fathered  of  the 
wish.  In  what  they  wear,  in  what  they  use,  in  even 
their  physical  presence  is  the  direct  and  uncompro 
mising  refutation  of  all  that  they  say. 

"The  clothes  upon  their  back,  if  they  be  men,  are 
from  the  hair  of  animals  that  have  been,  or  will  be, 
but  slaughtered  living  things  of  God;  if  they  be 
women,  perchance  they  wear  upon  their  heads  the 
wings  of  slain  birds,  and  around  their  necks  the 
cured  skins  of  God's  slain  creatures.  The  buttons 
on  these  clothes  are  from  the  bones  of  murdered 
animals.  Upon  their  feet  they  wear  shoes  made  of 
the  hides  of  butchered  beeves.  And  there  the  Paci 
fists  stand,  prating  that  they  don't  believe  in 
force!  .  .  .  And  the  power  that  gives  them  even 
that  strength  to  prate — whence  comes  that?  .  .  . 
From  lamb  chops,  perhaps  ...  the  ribs  of  gentle- 
eyed,  gentle-souled  little  sheep  across  whose  pitiful 
bleating  throats  knives  have  been  drawn.  Or  veal, 
which  is  of  the  ravaged  offspring  of  a  mother-cow;' 
the  mother-cow  with  the  instinct  of  the  mother- 
woman  who  mourns  for  days  of  that  ravishment. . . . 
Of  venison,  perchance;  a  proud  buck,  as  monoga- 
mistic  as  civilised  man,  a  far  better  lover,  a  far  bet 
ter  provider,  a  far  better  protector;  or  the  doe  that 


198  SCARS   AND    STRIPES 

he  has  protected ;  perhaps  a  doe  with  fawn,  graceful, 
full  of  the  prancing  joy  of  young  life — the  same 
wondrous,  unknown  thing  that  makes  children  romp 
and  run. 

"For  thus  it  is  that  in  this  world  the  mighty  prey 
upon  the  weak,  and  man,  the  mightiest  of  all,  de 
stroys  the  life,  eats  the  flesh  and  picks  the  bones  of 
living  things  that  God  has  put  upon  His  earth.  .  .  . 
And  the  Pacifist,  wearing  slaughtered  life,  eating 
slaughtered  life,  living  on,  and  by,  and  with,  slaugh 
tered  life,  doesn't  believe  in  force! 

"But  you  cannot  say  that  Life  is  wrong.  It  is 
the  Pacifist  that  is  wrong.  Life  is  Life.  We  who 
live  it  must  take  it  as  we  find  it.  We  will  make  it 
better  if  we  can.  But  in  the  meantime  we  must 
recognise  it  as  it  is.  We  cannot  give  to  it  the  attri 
butes  that  we  think  it  ought  to  have  and  then  try  to 
live  it  that  way.  For  that  is  like  trying  to  walk  upon 
the  water,  and  to  try  to  walk  upon  the  water  is  to 
drown. 

"We  have  refused  to  recognise  life  as  it  is;  obsti 
nately  and  pig-headedly  we  have  tried  to  argue 
against  all  reason  that  it  is  something  that  we  think 
it  ought  to  be.  We  have  gone  even  further  wrong. 
For  we  have  put  down  all  human  life  under  one 
block  characterisation.  We  have  refused  to  recog 
nise  that  a  Frenchman  is  a  Frenchman,  a  German 


"DALLY  'ROUND  THE  FLAG!"    199 

a  German,  and  a  Mexican  a  Mexican.     To  us  all 
mankind  is  alike,  to  be  dealt  with  uniformly. 

"With  equal  reverence,  with  equal  equity,  we 
have  written  notes  to  the  English  who,  playing  the 
game  fairly,  regard  them  as  notes;  and  to  the  Ger 
mans  who,  having  chucked  away  the  book,  regard 
them  as  jokes ;  and  to  the  Mexicans,  who  not  being 
able  to  read  much  and  not  understanding  very  well 
that  which  they  do  read,  regard  them  as  insults. 
And  all  because  we  have  arrived  at  a  point  of  na 
tional  prosperity  and  national  security  that  we  have 
entirely  lost  our  recollection  of  history,  our  view 
point  on  life  and  our  common  sense  about  facts. 
Upon  a  war-won  national  existence  we  have  built  a 
flimsy  superstructure  of  idealism  that  the  first  van 
dal  hand  that  chooses  can  yank  down  with  one  pull. 
A  good  strong  puff  from  any  nation  who  really  un 
derstands  Things  as  They  Are  would  send  our  fine 
Palace  of  Dreams  tumbling  down  about  us  and  be 
fore  we  got  ourselves  unsnarled  from  the  ruins, 
something  would  descend  upon  our  heads  and  we'd 
find  ourselves  with  a  harp  in  our  hands  and  a  pair 
of  wings  at  our  shoulder-blades,  while  all  the  prac 
tical  angels,  like  George  Washington  and  Abraham 
Lincoln,  and  King  Solomon  and  Noah  (the  latter, 
by  the  way,  being  the  original  disciple  of  Prepared 
ness  in  that,  when  popular  sentiment  was  entirely 


200  SCARS   AND    STRIPES 

against  it,  with  everybody  calling  him  an  alarmist 
and  saying  what  a  chump  he  was  to  get  all  worked 
up  when  there  was  no  danger,  proceeded  to  build 
the  ark,  and  when  the  flood  came  to  sail  happily 
away,  while  all  the  followers  of  Anti-Preparedness, 
like  the  Bryans  and  the  Fords  of  those  days,  stayed 
behind  and  drowned  a  whole  lot) — as  I  say,  all  these 
practical  angels,  wise  and  just  and  good  in  their 
day  and  generation,  would  we  see  gathered  around 
us,  shaking  their  heads  in  gentle,  pitying  reproach 
at  so  vast  and  unreasoning  an  ignorance.  .  .  .  And 
what  would  we  have  to  say  in  self -extenuation  for 
having  so  done  with  the  country  that  George  and 
Abraham  left  to  us  of  their  lifetimes'  work  and  de 
votion  and  love?  ...  I  opine  that  we'd  be  the 
cheapest-looking  lot  of  angels  that  ever  got  to 
heaven. 

"For  it  is  to  Pacifists  and  Idealists  alike  to  re 
member  that  these  men  believed  in  fighting.  They 
didn't  argue  that  Might  didn't  make  Right.  They 
didn't  try  to  excuse  their  own  failure  to  meet  facts 
as  they  were  by  saying  that  war  never  created  any 
lasting  thing.  They  believed  in  fighting.  They  be 
lieved  in  the  Force  of  Good  applied,  if  possible,  by 
Peace,  if  not,  by  War.  They  believed  in  fighting, 
even  as  Christ  believed  in  fighting.  And  if  you 


"DALLY  'ROUND  THE  FLAG!"    201 

don't  believe  me,  you  have  His  own  words  for  it, 
when,  before  Pilate,  He  said : 

"  'My  kingdom  is  not  of  this  world!  if  my  king 
dom  were  of  this  world,  then  would  my  servants 
fight  that  I  should  not  be  delivered  to  the  Jews/ 
And  if  that  means  anything,  it  means  that  Christ, 
being  interested  only  in  spiritual  things,  believed 
in  fighting  only  spiritually;  but  that,  had  He  been 
interested  in  material  things,  He  would  have  had 
no  hesitation  in  fighting  materially.  Hence  Christ 
fought  His  way,  leaving  us,  who  are  not  Christs,  to 
fight  ours. 

"Also  you  can  take  His  advice  to  'Render  unto 
Caesar  the  things  that  are  Caesar's  and  unto  God  the 
things  that  are  God's.'  With  the  substitution  of 
Carranza  for  Caesar  we  have  rather  good  counsel 
for  to-day  in  the  Mexican  mess. 

"And  have  we  of  America  followed  Christ's  spir 
itual  teachings?  Hardly.  Have  we  followed  the 
worldly  teachings  of  George  Washington  and  Abra 
ham  Lincoln?  Again  hardly.  Whose  teachings, 
then,  have  we  followed?  And  the  answer  is  that 
we  haven't  been  following  the  teachings  of  any 
body. 

"Here  we  are,  the  richest  nation  in  the  world,  and 
the  most  supine  and  the  fattest,  both  in  body  and 
in  head.  Wallowing  in  physical  luxury,  we  have 


202  SCARS   AND    STRIPES 

become  spiritually  so  loose,  so  lax  and  so  lazy  that 
we  have  almost  lost  the  capacity  to  think  and  to  act. 
And  all  that  our  boasted  American  hustling  has 
really  accomplished  is  to  create  these  two  well- 
known  and  justly  celebrated  American  institutions, 
the  quick  lunch  and  the  quick  hearse,  in  the  first  of 
which  you  can  get  chronic  indigestion  for  a  nickel, 
whereat  the  second  will  take  you  from  the  chapel  to 
the  grave  in  seventeen  minutes;  so  that  even  in 
death  are  we  still  hustling. 

"The  fact  that  at  last  our  selfishness,  our  laxness 
and  our  money  lust  have  put  us  against  the  iron 
has  raised  a  certain  amount  of  finer  feeling  in  sec 
tions,  which  is  much  to  be  thankful  for,  but  hardly 
enough,  when  you  come  to  think  that  for  months 
now  the  entire  "United  States  regular  army  has  been 
the  plaything  of  a  lot  of  Mexican  bandits.  We  have 
called  out  our  National  Guard.  Thank  God  for  the 
splendid  spirit  it  has  shown;  even  as  God  pity  us 
for  having  so  betrayed  and  neglected  it.  If,  while 
we're  sitting  here  talking,  there  should  be  a  call  for 
volunteers,  again  should  we  be  grateful  for  the 
glow  of  patriotism  for  which  we,  as  a  nation,  are  in 
no  way  responsible,  at  the  same  time  wondering 
where  in  Sam  Hill  we're  going  to  find  guns  for  'em, 
to  say  nothing  of  equipment,  ammunition,  or  yet 
shoes.  And  we  have  no  officers  to  lead  them;  and 


"DALLY  'ROUND  THE  FLAG!"   203 

remember,  it  takes  fully  a  year  to  make  even  a  very 
ordinary  officer.  Remember,  too,  that  three  years 
have  passed  while  we  have  fatuously  and  flatulently 
neglected  even  so  obvious  a  necessity  as  that. 

"And  whatever  may  happen  in  Mexico,  remem 
ber  that  we  have  no  choice  but  that  sooner  or  later 
we  must  go  in,  or  give  up  the  Monroe  Doctrine. 
Whereby,  in  a  final  analysis,  it  all  comes  down  to 
the  question : 

"Is  America  going  to  be  a  world  power,  or  isn't 
she? 

/    "If  she  is,  it's  time,  and  beyond,  when  she  should 

begin   to    stop    acting   like   a   weak-willed,    weak- 

I  minded,  weak-principled  megalomaniac  and  begin  to 

'  behave  like  the  power  that  she  wants  to  be.     No 

individual  can  attain  success  sitting  in  the  corner 

counting  his  fingers  when  other  individuals  are  in 

active  endeavour  in  the  marts  of  trade.     Similarly, 

\no  nation  can  attain  respect,  power  and  dignity  by 

side-stepping  every  issue  it  meets." 

My  friend  turned. 

"God  puts  us  here.  He  does  not  tell  us  His  secrets. 
He  leaves  us  here,  unaided,  to  do  our  human  best 
in  His  human  world.  In  His  mysterious  wisdom 
He  has  put  us  on  a  world  where  there  is  much  that 
we  do  not  understand,  much  that  we  do  not  like, 
much  that  we  love,  much  that  we  hate,  much  for 


204  SCARS   AND    STEIPES 

which  we  rejoice,  much  for  which  we  are  sorry. 
We  find  upon  that  earth  mother-love  and  murder, 
health  and  sickness,  happiness  and  sorrow,  laughter 
and  lying,  tenderness  and  treachery,  kindness  and 
brutality,  civilisation  and  slavery,  beauty  and  bes 
tiality,  rapture  and  ravishment,  religion  and  rape. 
We  find  faith,  hope  and  charity;  and  we  find  war, 
famine  and  pestilence.  We  find  joy  and  health  and 
life ;  as  we  find  sorrow  and  sickness  and  death.  We 
find  man;  and  we  find  beast.  We  find  gentle  peo 
ple;  and  we  find  savage  animals.  For  even  as  God 
has  put  upon  earth  you  and  me,  so  has  He  put  there 
the  Bengal  tiger  and  the  Gila  monster. 

"Why  all  these  things  were  put  here  we  do  not, 
we  cannot,  know.  Nor  has  all  the  time  since  the 
world  began,  nor  have  all  the  churches,  all  the  pray 
ers,  all  the  civilisation,  all  the  labours  of  generation 
on  generation  of  man  served  to  eliminate  that  which 
we  deem  wrong,  or  to  enhance  that  which  we  deem 
right.  It  is  in  degree  only  that  has  come  even  the 
little  betterment  we  find ;  and  that  degree  has  come 
only  through  righteous  force  backed,  if  need  be,  by 
righteous  war. 

/  "It  is  for  us  to  realise  that  even  as  God  gives  to 
the  tiger  claws  with  which  to  defend  himself;  even 
as  He  gives  to  the  Gila  monster  fangs,  and  to  the 
chameleon  the  gift  of  changing  colour,  so  to  man- 


"DALLY  'ROUND  THE  FLAG!"    205 

kind  He  has  given  intelligence.  He  gives  the  Eng 
lish  and  the  French  brains  to  defend  themselves 
against  the  German  monster;  or,  if  you  be  German, 
He  gives  the  Germans  brains  to  defend  themselves 
against  English  and  French  oppression.  The  tiger 
uses  his  claws.  The  rattlesnake  uses  his  fangs.  The 
chameleon  changes  its  colour.  The  English,  the 
French,  the  Germans  use  their  brains.  And  it  is 
now  not  for  us  to  continue,  supine,  witless,  arro 
gant  and  idealistic,  to  deny  ourselves  the  use  of  that 
which  God  has  given  us  by  questioning  His  gifts  or 
quarrelling  with  His  world.  While  other  nations 
have  used  brains,  we  have  used  emotions.  Where 
other  nations  have  used  intelligence,  we  have  used 
idealism.  Where  other  nations  have  been  wise  men, 
we  have  been  fools.  And  it  has  brought  us  to 
shame,  to  contempt,  to  abuse  and  to  murder.  Let 
us  in  His  name  stop  before  it  brings  us  to  destruc 
tion. 

"For  now,  more  than  ever  in  our  history,  do  we 
need  to  realise,  and  to  make  others  realise,  how 
great,  how  grievous,  are  our  needs.  For  saying 
what  we  must  say  to  expose  these  needs,  we  shall 
be  criticised ;  we  shall  be  scolded  by  the  half  thinkers 
who,  reading  in  their  half-thinking  way,  believe  that 
we  are  condemning  America  and  Americans.  Them 
we  must  try  to  make  understand  that  we  are  NOT 


206  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

condemning  America.  We  think  it  is  the  finest 
country  in  the  world,  with  the  finest  institutions  in 
the  world.  But  we  want  it  so  to  remain.  We  are 
not  condemning  Americans.  We  think  we  are  the 
finest  race  in  the  world  with  the  finest  racial  traits 
in  the  world.  And  we  want  us  so  to  remain.  But 
we  are  condemning,  and  condemning  as  hard  as  we 
know  how,  that  class  of  Americans  who  are  too  fat, 
too  selfish,  too  vain,  too  arrogant,  too  ignorant,  too 
helpless,  too  supine,  too  cowardly,  too  inept,  too  in 
competent,  or  too  sound  asleep  to  be-  good  Amer 
icans.  It  is  for  them  to  try  to  realize  what  America 
needs  and  be  good  enough  Americans  to  give  it  to 
her ;  and  that  it's  up  to  every  man,  woman  and  child 
^who  loves  America  to  pitch  in  and  help  out. 

"Let  them  try  to  understand  that  what  we  are 
working  for,  and  all  we  are  working  for,  is  a  race  of 
good,  united  Americans  in  the  great,  united  Amer 
ica  that  our  fathers  left  us  in  peace  and  in  power,  in 
the  great  America  that  we  love  and  honour  and  re 
spect,  in  whose  traditions  we  glory,  in  whose 
strength  we  are  proud,  and  in  whose  dignity  and 
whose  God  we  trust ;  and  that  it  is  for  us  so  to  act 
that  when  it  comes  time  for  us  to  join  those  fine  men 
from  whom  we  sprung,  we  can  go  with  head  erect, 
with  eyes  firm,  with  soul  clean. 

"For,"  he  concluded,  "I'd  certainly  hate  to  walk 


"DALLY  'ROUND  THE  FLAG!"    207 

in  through  the  pearly  gates  to  find  everybody 
ashamed  of  us,  to  see  George  Washington  turn  his 
face  away  in  sorrow,  and  have  Abraham  Lincoln 
sadly  shake  his  fine  old  head  in  grief  of  what  we  had 
done  of  the  land  that  he  loved  and  for  which  he 
lived  and  died;  and  even  Diogenes  passing  us  up, 
without  even  bringing  his  lantern  over,  as  not  worth 
while  bothering  with ;  while  Judas  Iscariot  sat  over 
in  the  corner  chewing  his  whiskers  in  jealousy  be 
cause  he  only  betrayed  One  while  we're  betraying 
a  hundred  million,  and  Marie  Antoinette,  who  pos 
sessed  about  the  same  absence  of  views  on  anything 
as  Henry  Ford,  until  she  entirely  lost  her  head  over 
the  matter,  smiling  beautifully  on  us  from  beside 
Icarus,  the  premier  aviator  of  his  time,  who,  as  we 
of  to-day,  neglected  to  plan  ahead  until  all  of  a 
sudden  he  got  an  Awful  Bump ;  not  to  mention  Da 
vid,  like  Noah  one  of  the  early  followers  of  Pre 
paredness  who  got  busy  when  the  time  came  and 
fixed  himself  with  a  sling  and  a  couple  or  rocks  and 
went  over  and  got  Old  Man  Goliath ;  and  the  kind- 
faced,  kind-souled  people  of  the  gentle  hills  of  Bel 
gium,  men,  women,  little  children  warm  from  God's 
own  arms,  who  Know  because  It  Happened  to 
Them.  .  .  . 

"All  these  we  want  to  face  clean,  straight,  hon 
est.  .  .  .  We  want  them  to  be  glad  to  see  us,  not 


208  SCARS   AND   STRIPES 

sorry.  .  .  .  We  want  them  to  be  proud  of  us,  not 
ashamed.  ...  It  is  much  to  ask.  Yet  it  is  not  too 
much.  ...  Do  you  think  so?" 

I  shook  my  head.    For  God  knows  it  is  not. 


THE  END 


DAY    AND     TO    s[°  5°  CE"TS  ON 
OVERDUE.  $7'°°    ON     THE 


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